


The Horselord and his Prince of Númenor

by colossally_fubar



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle Scenes, Crossover, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Queer Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5830960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colossally_fubar/pseuds/colossally_fubar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the final year of the War of the Ring, Bertholdt of the Tower Guard meets Reiner, a rider of Rohan. Their love for each other develops in a time when captains fall in distant lands, lords succumb to madness, and Sauron's power grows in the East. They can only fight for a future that may not exist: one in which the One Ring is destroyed, Gondor and Rohan can prosper, and Reiner and Bertholdt can live without fear that this parting may be the last. Reibert Lord of the Rings crossover fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tale of Felaróf

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration between myself and a good friend of mine, horridfalafel. For more of her work, check out her tumblr: horridfalafel.tumblr.com. 
> 
> We have pulled elements from both the film trilogy and the books to form what we felt was the most interesting story. We have taken some liberties with the organization of things such as the Tower Guard and the Rohirrim. Characters, costumes, and settings are assumed to appear as they do in Peter Jackson's films. 
> 
> Lastly, while this is an SnK crossover, it is solely a Reibert fic, and no other SnK characters or pairings appear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner is a man of Rohan who has volunteered to help Bertholdt, a Gondorian, with his sick horse. Reiner entertains Bertholdt with a late night story and Bertholdt has some feelings for his companion.

Glancing up at the night sky, Bertholdt pulled his heavy cloak around his shoulders. The moon lit his way to the stables of Edoras. Bertholdt always found sleeping during the day mildly disorienting. People were not meant to sleep during the day and be awake all night, but that was what Bertholdt had to do. He had come to Edoras to deliver a missive from his lord, Denethor, Steward of Gondor. He had originally planned for his stay to be brief, but injury and illness kept him from returning to Minas Tirith. His horse had initially had a sore foot, too sore for the three-day journey. But then as his horse’s foot had begun to heal, his horse had fallen ill with colic. He had been in Edoras over a week now. 

Entering the stable, Bertholdt’s eyes sought out a green cloak with golden knotwork. A blond-haired man was sitting before his horse’s stall on a bale of straw. Bertholdt’s face breaking into a small smile, he said softly, “good evening, Reiner.” 

Reiner started, apparently jostled out of a deep reverie. “Good evening, Bertholdt.” Reiner struggled to stifle a yawn. “Your horse hasn’t colicked since you retired to bed.” 

Bertholdt sank down onto the bale of straw beside Reiner. He pulled his own black cloak around him. The night was just chilly enough that he was glad for the extra warmth. “That’s good,” Bertholdt replied, watching his horse munch on hay.  

“If he doesn’t colic again for the next few days, I think you shall be able to return to Minas Tirith,” Reiner continued. There was almost something sad in his voice. 

“A few more days?” Bertholdt repeated. He already felt like he had been away from his post too long; the idea of three more days between now and being homeward bound gnawed at him. He knew better than argue with Reiner. “You know best. You are the horse master, not me.” 

Reiner gave Bertholdt a small smile. “You looked like you needed help, when your horse was unsound.” 

“I am grateful for your help,” Bertholdt said, subconsciously scooting in so he sat right next to Reiner. “You know so much about what can sicken and heal these animals.” 

Even in the dim light of the stable, Bertholdt thought he saw the hint of a blush. “I am a rider of Rohan, I have been around these animals every day of my life. All my knowledge is just lessons I have learned along the way.” 

For a while Bertholdt and Reiner sat in silence, maintaining their watch. There were few sounds but the sound of horses: chewing their hay, letting out the occasional snort, moving around in their stalls. Bertholdt had slowly grown accustomed to being in the stable at all hours, but Reiner seemed completely at home, as if sitting in the stable on a chilly night was more comfortable than lying in his own bed. It was admirable to Bertholdt. 

After their long period of silence, Reiner cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to fetch us something to eat, and a mug of ale?” His stomach audibly grumbled. 

Bertholdt let out a small laugh. “Of course.” He stood up, shaking the hay out of his cloak. Walking back out into the moonlight, Bertholdt gazed at the Golden Hall, its roof glistening. While he missed Minas Tirith and felt the need to return to his duties, there were going to be a few things in Edoras he did not want to leave behind. The breathtaking sight of Meduseld was one of them. Reiner was the other. 

The fire in the center of the Golden Hall had burned to embers, but there was just enough light for Bertholdt to gaze upon the tapestries hanging there. His eyes fixed upon one, depicting a man falling from a white charger. While Reiner had told Bertholdt many stories, he did not think that he had heard any tales with a white horse. When he returned with food, he would have to ask Reiner. 

Emerging from the storeroom, Bertholdt struggled to hold onto the loaf of bread and the two tankards of ale. He made his way back the stables, miraculously not spilling a drop. “Here, Reiner,” Bertholdt murmured when he returned. He set down one mug next to the straw and extended the other to Reiner. 

Reiner took a long draught. “This puts a little bit of a fire in one’s belly,” he said with a grin. “I could use that on a cold night.” 

Bertholdt retrieved his own tankard and sipped at it. Unlike Reiner, he mostly drank wine, but wine seemed to lack in popularity among the Rohirrim. Reiner took the loaf of bread and broke it in half, silently giving the other half to Bertholdt. 

Bertholdt’s curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. After Reiner had consumed his half of the bread, Bertholdt spoke. “Reiner… I noticed a tapestry, in the Golden Hall. I just wondered, if there was any story behind it.” 

Reiner immediately sat up in interest, a light coming to his eyes. Even in the brief time Bertholdt had know the man, he had learned that Reiner had a strong interest in the history of the Rohirrim. There seemed to be nothing Reiner did not know a song or poem about. “Which tapestry?” Reiner asked excitedly. 

“The one with the white horse, and a man falling from his back,” Bertholdt described quickly. 

It seemed as though a new wakefulness had filled Reiner. “You saw the tapestry of Felaróf!” The blond was struggling to contain his excitement. 

Bertholdt gave Reiner a small smile. “Would you care to tell me the story of Felaróf, Reiner?” 

Reiner took a few moments to compose himself, playing with the small braid of hair that hung at his temple. It was clear that Reiner wanted to give Bertholdt a good storytelling, something Bertholdt had come to enjoy immensely. Clearing his throat, Reiner began to speak, in the rhythmic tones Bertholdt had come to associate with Reiner’s oral history. 

> “ _Before Rohan was known as Rohan, and before the Horsemen of the Mark were called the Rohirrim,_
> 
> _There existed the Éothéod, the horse-people of the North._
> 
> _In those early days, a white foal was captured on the fields of the Langwell and Greylin, at the roots of the Misty Mountains to the West and the Grey Mountains to the North._
> 
> _Léod, son of King Fram slayer of the dragon Scatha, Léod horse-tamer took it upon himself to tame this white foal._
> 
> _Yet when Léod horse-tamer mounted the white horse, the horse threw him,_
> 
> _Léod’s head was dashed upon the stones of the fields and was killed._
> 
> _Eorl the Young, son of Léod, took it upon himself to find this white horse that had been his father’s bane._
> 
> _A lesser man would have killed the horse in turn, but Eorl the Young stood before the white charger_
> 
> _Who could understand the speech of Men, and demanded that the white charger serve him as payment for his father’s death._
> 
> _The white charger took the name Felaróf; in the tongue of the Éothéod, meaning ‘very valiant’._
> 
> _And so Felaróf was. It was Felaróf that Eorl the Young rode from the source waters of the river Anduin, to Gondor’s aid on the Field of Celebrant._
> 
> _The Éothéod renamed themselves the Eorlingas, the followers of Eorl on his white horse, first of the Mearas._
> 
> _Since those early days, the Mearas is the horse of the kings, the white charger on a green field._
> 
> _Eorl and Felaróf met their end in the Wold, defending the Mark from Easterlings._
> 
> _Horse and Rider are buried together, before the gates of Edoras, and Simbelmynë grows on their barrow_.” 

Reiner let out a sigh at the conclusion of his story. Bertholdt sat there, spellbound for a moment, too enchanted by Reiner’s speech to ruin the silence. Finally, he drew a long breath, unsure what to say. Feeling his cheeks growing hot, he said, “thank you, Reiner.” 

At this, Reiner’s face broke into a smile. “I’ve always loved that legend,” Reiner admitted, glancing away as though he was embarrassed. “How my people came to be the Eorlingas of the Riddermark.” 

Bertholdt listened keenly to Reiner’s words. “I understand. I have always loved the history of Gondor, and how my ancestors long before me came across the Sea.” 

“Seeing you the first time, standing in the Golden Hall, I thought you were a Númenórean prince, somehow come to us out of days of old.” Reiner’s face turned a distinct shade of scarlet. 

Bertholdt found himself flushing, his ears feeling hot. “I am of the Dúnedain, but I am no prince— although my family is descended from Anárion, son of Elendil,” he blurted, feeling thoroughly embarrassed. 

Looking up to meet Reiner’s eyes, he noticed that Reiner’s face was equal parts surprise and amazement. Feeling incredibly awkward, Bertholdt chose to stare at his boots. It seemed to take Reiner a long time to find words. “And here you are, sitting in the stable at night on a bale of straw, talking with a lowly rider of Rohan,” Reiner said finally, choosing to stare at Bertholdt’s horse instead. “Listening to his oral histories because he cannot write them down in books.” 

“No!” Bertholdt exclaimed impulsively. “You’re not ‘lowly’ rider of Rohan, you’re a captain of high esteem and a talented horseman. I admire your skill, and your kindness. And… I’ve loved listening to your stories.” 

Reiner briefly looked at Bertholdt, before turning away to watch Bertholdt’s horse some more. Bertholdt was desperate for Reiner to say something, but he could not think of the right words. Internally kicking himself, Bertholdt continued to stare down at his feet. 

“Thank you,” Reiner said finally. Bertholdt’s head snapped up. “For listening to me. The story about Felaróf… I have never told that to anyone before.” He rose from his seat, stretching as he stifled a yawn. “Dawn is approaching. I am going to sleep. Call for me if your horse begins pawing again.” With that, Reiner left the stables. Bertholdt was left alone with his thoughts, and all his feelings about that captain of the Rohirrim, and how he wanted to stay at Edoras and tell of the fall of Númenor and the glory days of Gondor in the same poetic cadences as Reiner. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes expanding on Tolkien’s universe
> 
> Meduseld– the Golden Hall of Rohan
> 
> Simbelmynë– “evermind”, a white flower that grows on the barrows of the Kings of Rohan
> 
> Dúnedain– a race of Men from Númenor, renowned for long life. Famous members include Aragorn, Faramir, and Elendil. 
> 
> Anárion– co-founder of Gondor, along with his brother, Isildur.


	2. The Tower of Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner comes to Minas Tirith with a confession to make to Bertholdt. He can only hope that the member of the Tower Guard is in the City and has feelings for him as well.

Reiner had never stepped foot in the White City of Gondor until today. It was undeniably impressive. Minas Tirith towered above the plains of the Pelennor, grander in life than any of the tales and songs could capture. He had ridden his horse all the way to the sixth level, marveling at the buildings and courtyards and gardens of the city. He had to leave his horse at the stables there; he tried to search the stable quickly for Bertholdt’s black and white horse, but was unable to spot him. 

Having delivered the missives from Edoras to the Steward of Gondor, his mission was complete. Reiner stepped out of the throne room into the courtyard, where a white tree stood barren, a few leaves clinging to its branches. It was a most melancholy tree, Reiner thought, different from how he imagined it. Based on the White Tree emblazoned on Bertholdt’s uniform, Reiner had imagined a tree covered in leaves, standing stately and proud. This tree seemed tired and old beyond reckoning. 

Reiner was not here to gaze at trees, though. He had a new mission now, and that was to find Bertholdt in such a large city. He knew that Bertholdt was a member of the Tower Guard, the elite soldiers tasked with protecting the citadel of Minas Tirith and the Steward of Gondor. If Bertholdt was on duty, he would not be too hard to find— hopefully. If he was off duty, however, Bertholdt could be anywhere in the city. 

But Bertholdt had not been posted in the throne room, nor about the White Tree, nor at the entrance to the seventh level. Deciding it was worth it to ask, Reiner cleared his throat and turned to the soldier standing by the gate, a dark haired man with grey eyes and a stony expression. “Excuse me… you would not happen to know where Bertholdt is stationed?” Afraid that question might seem unprecedented, he added, “I am a friend of his.” 

Maintaining his stony expression, the man answered simply, “he has been sent on an errand by the Lord Denethor, to the garrison at Osgiliath. He will back by nightfall.” 

Reiner could not help but feel some pangs of disappointment. So Bertholdt was not in the city at all. Resigning himself to a day of loneliness, Reiner fed and groomed his horse thoroughly, before wandering aimlessly through the city. Minas Tirith was magnificent, to be sure, but for a man of Rohan, the city felt almost stifling. He could not imagine living in Minas Tirith for any length of time. 

As the sun began to set in the West, Reiner made his way back up to the sixth circle. At the very least, he could feed his horse. Reiner had just moved to throw his horse some hay when a familiar voice called his name. 

“Reiner! What are you doing here?” Bertholdt exclaimed, leading his spotted horse into the stable. His green eyes seemed to sparkle and his face seemed to light up at the sight of Reiner. It put butterflies in Reiner’s stomach. 

“Théoden King had a message to be taken to Lord Denethor. I volunteered to be messenger,” Reiner explained, smiling back at Bertholdt. 

Bertholdt began to pull off his horse’s saddle. “This is a pleasant surprise! I never expected to see you in Minas Tirith…” Reiner thought he caught a bit of a blush on Bertholdt’s cheeks. 

“I always hoped I would get to see Minas Tirith with my own eyes, instead of in stories,” Reiner said, throwing the hay to his horse; he walked over to where Bertholdt was grooming his horse in his stall. “How was your errand? One of the Tower Guard told me that you were taking a message to Osgiliath.” 

Bertholdt sighed. “Fairly routine. The Steward’s sons are stationed there, and the older is Captain of the Tower Guard. It is frequent that I take messages and commands to the garrison.” Bertholdt sounded very tired, as if he had been too exhausted to run such an errand that day. “But, you are here, and that is a great joy to me.” 

Reiner felt his face grow hot. He had taken the mission to Minas Tirith almost for the sole purpose of seeing Bertholdt again. To hear Bertholdt so happy to see him, it gave him hope… “I have eaten very little today. Would you like to take the evening meal with me?” 

Bertholdt’s face lit up in a small smile. “I have had little to eat today, as well. I would love to take the daymeal with you. If it would not be too much trouble, I would like to go to my quarters and change out of this heavy mail.” 

“It would be no trouble at all,” Reiner stated firmly. Side by side, they bid farewell to their horses, and left the stable. Bertholdt led Reiner to a building nestled right up to the wall of the seventh level, a fair green courtyard with a cheerful fountain lying before it. 

“Wait here,” Bertholdt commanded. With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into building. He emerged a few minutes later, wearing trousers and a rich red shirt, overlain by a brown tunic with gold trim. He still looked every bit a prince, Reiner thought. 

“So the people of Gondor call the meal at sundown the ‘daymeal’? Seems like an ill-fitting name, as the day is almost over,” Reiner commented lightheartedly. 

Bertholdt let out a small laugh, the sound of which was like flowing water to Reiner’s ears. “Perhaps so. Nevertheless, we call it the Daymeal. Normally I dine with my men in our quarters,  and they would have no objection to a man of the Rohirrim dining with us, but…” Bertholdt trailed off, his dark brows furrowed as though internally debating what to say next. Just as Reiner was about to suggest that they dine with Bertholdt’s men, Bertholdt spoke. “I think I would prefer to take the daymeal alone with you.” 

Reiner felt his heart skip a beat. “I would be honored.” 

At this, Bertholdt smiled. “I know of an excellent alehouse, down in the second level. It is a bit of a walk, if you’re willing.”

“Sounds good to me,” Reiner agreed. 

As they walked down through the city, they spoke of what had transpired in their lives since Bertholdt’s stay in Edoras and their long nights spent caring for Bertholdt’s horse. Reiner almost tripped over his own feet a couple times, too caught up in staring as Bertholdt as they walked in the light of the setting sun. Finally, Bertholdt paused at a warm, inviting looking building that was clearly a tavern. “The Blazing Beacon has one of the best ales in the city,” Bertholdt said, “I figured that would be to your liking.” 

Reiner gave Bertholdt a grin. “And here I thought you would bring me to a place that only served the finest wines!” Reiner held the door open for Bertholdt, ushering him in. 

Scanning the tavern, Bertholdt selected a table that was fairly isolated from where the main crush of people had gathered. This made sense. It seemed that Bertholdt was fairly eager to spend his evening as quietly as possible after his errand-running that day. Reiner sank into the chair, glad to finally be off his feet. 

“I am going up to the bar to order for us. What would you like?” Bertholdt asked, pulling a coin purse from his trouser pocket. 

Reiner opened his mouth to tell Bertholdt that he should not pay for his meal, but Bertholdt silenced him. “I have more than enough money to afford your meal, Reiner. Consider it payment for all the help you gave at Edoras.” 

Reiner softly exhaled. “I will have whatever you are having. You know the fare far better than I.” Inwardly, he almost hoped that Bertholdt paying his meal was truly a romantic gesture, but he doubted this. It was likely payment of a debt, as Bertholdt had stated. 

Bertholdt returned a few minutes later with two steaming bowls of stew in hand. He walked back to the bar, presumably to pick up beverages. Sitting down with a heavy sigh, Bertholdt pushed a tankard of ale towards Reiner, setting a glass of wine in front of himself. 

Reiner took a draught of the ale. While it could not supplant his favored ale from the Mark, the tavern’s house ale was certainly good. It was satisfying after the day. Bertholdt sipped at his wine. “Is their wine any good?” Reiner asked curiously. 

“This particular red comes from Dor-en-Ernil, the land of the Prince of Dol Amroth. The best wines all come from that region of Gondor,” Bertholdt explained. “I got us both the cabbage and potato stew. I wanted something hearty.” Bertholdt dipped his spoon into the stew and began sipping at it daintily, like Reiner would expect of a prince. 

Reiner began devouring his own stew hungrily. Bertholdt was correct; the blend of cabbage, potato, carrots, and leeks was very hearty. Reiner tried to maintain some decorum— he did not want to be the man of the Mark who behaved as though he always lived in a barn. Pausing, Reiner watched Bertholdt eat for a moment. “You seem exhausted, Bertholdt.” 

Bertholdt glanced around the tavern nervously. He spoke in hushed tones. “Riding across the Pelennor to Osgiliath requires a good deal of energy, more than just standing watch at the gates to the Citadel. And… Lord Denethor is not always the easiest man to work with. His favoritism towards his eldest son is strong. It can be difficult, being the intermediate between the Steward and his sons.” 

Reiner did not know what to say in response, so for a moment he continued eating his stew and drinking his ale in silence. “That does sound like a difficult place to be in,” Reiner said slowly. “I apologize if you wanted to take the daymeal alone in the peace of your quarters.” 

“No!” Bertholdt exclaimed quickly. He took a drink of his wine, as though ashamed of his own exclamation. “Reiner… I have not seen you since we parted at the gates of Edoras, nearly two months hence. Seeing your face again…” Bertholdt trailed off, looking away. “How much longer will you stay in the city?” 

“At least a couple days,” Reiner replied. “I am hoping for Lord Denethor to draft his answer to Théoden King soon. That way, I can return to Edoras with a response.” He scraped the last remnants of his stew from the bowl and drained his tankard of ale. 

Bertholdt finished his meal quickly. Looking as content with a full belly as Reiner felt, Bertholdt rose from the table. Reiner followed suit. Bidding a farewell to the barkeep, Bertholdt held the door open for Reiner and they began the long walk to the sixth circle. 

“Do you have a place to stay?” Bertholdt inquired. 

“I have rented a room in an inn in the sixth circle. I desired to be close to my horse,” Reiner explained. 

Bertholdt gave Reiner a small smile. “Exactly what I would expect from you, Reiner.” 

Upon reaching the gate to the sixth level, Reiner impulsively said, “let me escort you back to your quarters, at least?” 

Bertholdt gave no protestation. Together they returned to the courtyard with the cheerful fountain, the moon’s silver light now shining upon the white stonework. It was almost eerie. Instead of bidding Reiner good night and retreating to his cell, Bertholdt sank down on the bench, his gaze fixed on the East. “Sit next to me?” Bertholdt asked. 

Reiner carefully draped his cloak to one side before sitting down. He brought his eyes up to gaze at the East for the first time since he arrived in Minas Tirith. Reiner had made a strong effort to ignore what lay to the East, but with Bertholdt gazing that direction, Reiner was compelled to as well. His eyes focused on the dark mountains— the Mountains of Shadow, as they were called in his stories. Beyond those Mountains of Shadow, Reiner fully understood why Mordor was known as the “Land of Fire”. The black clouds that gathered over that black land were lit up with an unearthly red light. The fires of Mount Doom, he realized. 

“How… How do you gaze at this, every day?” Reiner asked, his blood feeling cold. 

“You mean Mordor.” Bertholdt scooted so he sat right next to Reiner. “Minas Tirith was once Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun, the city of Anárion. Minas Ithil was the Tower of the Moon, the city of Isildur. When Minas Ithil fell to the Nazgûl, when it became Minas Morgul, the Tower of Sorcery, Minas Anor became Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard.” Reiner noticed that Bertholdt was making a valiant attempt at putting some rhythm in his speech; it made him smile slightly. “Gondor has always been the Free Peoples’ first line of defense against the darkness of Mordor. It feels like my duty to stand watch here, beyond the duty I owe as a member of the Tower Guard.” 

Reiner understood well enough. It was the same sense of duty that had compelled Reiner to join the Rohirrim: the need to defend his people from the great darkness in the East. “Do you ever feel a need to stand watch here, because of your heritage?” Reiner asked earnestly. “This being the city of Anárion, as you said… Founded and built by the Dúnedain, your people?” 

At this, Bertholdt seemed unable to avoid smiling. “Yes… this is the city of my ancestors, the men of Númenor. I feel some kinship, here.” Maybe it was the light of the moon deceiving him, but Reiner thought he saw a hint of a blush upon Bertholdt’s cheeks. 

A cold wind from the North blew through the city. Reiner’s cloak spared him from the worst, but Bertholdt was unable to suppress a shiver. Making a snap decision, Reiner unclasped the horse-head brooch that held his cloak about his shoulders. He then flung the green cloak, emblazoned with the white horse of Rohan, around Bertholdt. Still dressed in his leather armor and gauntlets, he would keep warm well enough. Bertholdt, however, was dressed in plainclothes. “You seem cold,” Reiner said simply, expecting Bertholdt to protest. 

Instead, Bertholdt wrapped Reiner’s cloak around him more tightly. “Thank you,” Bertholdt said softly. “Is the horse, on your cloak, is that Felaróf?” 

Reiner could not help but grin. “You remembered my tale. And yes, the white horse of Rohan is Felaróf.” 

“I remember all the tales you told me, those cold nights in the stable of Edoras,” Bertholdt murmured. “The one about Felaróf, and the one of Brego, and of Helm Hammerhand… all of them.” 

Reiner could feel his heart begin to race in his chest. He had hoped that he had meant more to Bertholdt than just a soldier who had happened to be useful to him. But for Bertholdt to be so eager to see him upon his arrival in the stables, and to take the daymeal alone with him, and to sit next to him, and to say that he remembered and cared about Reiner’s stories? It was more than Reiner could possibly hope for. 

Deciding that he should say what his heart had been feeling for months now, Reiner took a deep breath, locking eyes with Bertholdt. His mouth felt dry, his head was spinning, and his heart hammered in his chest. “I need to say this, Bertholdt, son of Anardil—during the times we shared in Edoras, and in the past months since we parted, I have come to love you. I say this in the small hope that you have come to love me too, during the wee hours of the nights we spent teaching each other words of Rohirric and Sindarin.” 

The surprise on Bertholdt’s face was evident. “Reiner, I—” for a few moments, Bertholdt could not force words out. “Reiner son of Guthred, I never wanted to leave you behind in Edoras.” His voice wavered. “I love you, so much.”

Feeling his heart skip a beat with relief and joy, Reiner pulled Bertholdt in by the cloak he still had pulled about his body. Assured now that his love was reciprocated, Reiner leaned in, caressing Bertholdt’s face with both hands, and tenderly pressed his lips to Bertholdt’s. 

Immediately Bertholdt kissed him back, his lips softer than Reiner could have imagined. Bertholdt’s nose was pressed gently into Reiner’s cheek, his hands gripping tightly on Reiner’s forearms. Reiner closed his eyes, deepening the kiss in response to the actions of Bertholdt’s body. There were still hints of the wine Bertholdt had drank with his daymeal upon his lips. Reiner lingered there a few more moments before he finally pulled away. Bertholdt opened his eyes, his expression wonderstruck. 

Reiner rubbed the stubble on Bertholdt’s face with a thumb, unable to resist touching Bertholdt like this. He could not bear to break the silence. 

“That was the best kiss I have ever had,” Bertholdt said breathlessly, leaning into Reiner’s embrace. Reiner could tell that Bertholdt was indeed very tired from the way he felt heavy in Reiner’s arms. 

“And there is nothing saying we cannot share more, before I have to return to Edoras,” Reiner murmured. “I think you are exhausted, Bertholdt. It may be best for you to rest now. I imagine you must be up by daybreak.” 

“Yes,” Bertholdt muttered tiredly, “I should retire now.” Pulling the cloak off his body, Bertholdt handed the cloak back to Reiner. Reiner draped it over one arm. 

“Good night, Bertholdt,” Reiner said softly, staring into Bertholdt’s beautiful emerald eyes. Taking Bertholdt’s hands in his, Reiner pulled him up from the bench. 

“Good night to you, Reiner,” Bertholdt replied, giving Reiner a small smile. “I shall see you in the morning. Meet me here at daybreak to break fast?” 

“As my prince commands.” Bertholdt was too tired to argue. 

With that, Bertholdt turned and walked into the building, leaving Reiner alone in the courtyard. For a few minutes Reiner stood there, committing to memory how soft Bertholdt’s lips were and the taste of the Dor-en-Ernil wine that had lingered upon them. Then Reiner set off towards the inn, his heart feeling lighter than ever it had in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nazgûl-- another term for the Ringwraiths.


	3. Bertholdt's History and Reiner's Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt returns to Edoras with the hopes of sharing with Reiner a story of Gondor: a civil war called the Kin-Strife. Bertholdt reveals something of his parentage and Reiner is forced to share one of his greatest embarrassments with Bertholdt.

Bertholdt could feel himself growing more and more desperate the longer he attempted to speak with Théoden King. He knew that the mind of the king was sick, from the quiet conversations he had with Reiner. But Bertholdt felt utterly unprepared to try and reason with the man sitting in the throne of Rohan. Théoden’s eyes seemed clouded over and his face was ancient, and his words came out slowly and slurred, as though the king was still asleep. 

Finally, the king’s advisor (a man Reiner lovelessly called “Wormtongue”) took the packet of documents from Bertholdt’s gauntleted hands. With that, Bertholdt was free to leave. Bertholdt strode quickly from the Golden Hall, his heart racing with the anxiety that Reiner was not at Edoras at all. 

The natural place to look for Reiner was at the stables of the Rohirrim, but Reiner was not there, and much to Bertholdt’s distress, neither was his horse. Nervously, Bertholdt went up to a man who was diligently cleaning his saddle. “Pardon me, but do you know if Reiner is in the city?” 

The man shrugged. “He should be” was the response. 

Bertholdt left the stable and began walking towards where the large horse yards were located on the edge of the city. At the very least, if Reiner’s horse was there, Bertholdt would know to keep searching Edoras for Reiner. He had so much he needed to tell him. 

Fortunately, his search was short. Reiner was at the fence of the horse yards, affectionately stroking the neck of his grey mare. Bertholdt stood there for a minute, watching Reiner silently as he offered his mare an apple, awed by the devoted horsemanship that Reiner possessed. 

Just as Reiner was about to turn around, Bertholdt spoke. “Reiner, it seems our luck has held.”

Reiner started, obviously surprised to hear a voice behind him. He spun around, his stunning green cloak moving with his body dramatically. “Bertholdt!” His expression was one of surprise and joy. 

Bertholdt broke into a run, his chainmail jingling slightly as he moved. He embraced Reiner tightly, breathing in the scent of horse that Bertholdt associated with Reiner. Reiner returned the embrace, burying his face into Bertholdt’s shoulder. For a minute, they remained that way, before Bertholdt pulled away to place a tender kiss on Reiner’s lips. 

“Did you make another mail delivery?” Reiner asked after Bertholdt had ended his kiss. 

“Yes, I had a large diplomatic package with messages from both the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth,” Bertholdt explained. “The king of Rohan…” 

Reiner glanced around, as though to be sure that there was no one else within earshot. “Théoden King is not well,” Reiner admitted. “Something has poisoned his mind. Some people say old age, but I do not believe that at all. He has always been an excellent and admirable leader… It’s that Wormtongue.” At this, Reiner’s hands clenched into fists. He was clearly infuriated by Théoden’s degeneration. 

Bertholdt was desperate for a way to distract Reiner. “Forgive me, I did not mean to pry.” 

Reiner took a deep breath. Slowly, the tension in his body decreased. “All is forgiven, Bertholdt. What news from Minas Tirith?” 

“Nothing good,” Bertholdt confessed. Feeling overwhelmed by his emotion, the words began to pour out of his mouth. “Orcs attacked Osgiliath. I was there at the time, serving as an errand-runner to the Captain of the Tower Guard, when the orcs invaded the eastern part of the city. I fought to hold the bridge alongside my lords Boromir and Faramir— the sons of the Steward— and in the battle, the bridge was destroyed. I survived only by swimming to safety on the western bank.” At this, Bertholdt buried his face in his hands, memories of the battle still fresh in his mind. He had not been prepared to fight. The orcs had appeared seemingly from nowhere. 

Bertholdt felt Reiner wrap his arms around his body and hold him close. “I am beyond relief, that you made your way back to me,” Reiner finally said, his voice thick. “I always think of you as safe in the White City, this scares me beyond belief…” 

Bertholdt allowed himself to be comforted by Reiner. “My Captain, Boromir, was sent by the Steward his father on an urgent errand to Rivendell. I am acting as Captain, now.” 

Reiner pulled away slightly to study Bertholdt’s face. “Acting as Captain? For how long?” There was concern in his voice. 

“Until Lord Boromir returns. That will not be for months,” Bertholdt replied. “I did not ask for this position, it came to me, only because I am one of the more senior members of the Tower Guard and of the Dúnedain. I hope Boromir returns to Minas Tirith soon.” 

“You are used to taking orders from others. It is more comfortable for you,” Reiner said bluntly. “Speaking plainly, being Captain is not a position you should have. You are not a natural leader.” 

Reiner’s words were true, though they did sting a little. “You are talented at leading, Reiner, you are able to convince your men to follow you, I know from all your tales of the skirmishes against orcs and Dunlendings you have led… I just cannot be that kind of person.” 

“I hope for your sake, that Boromir returns soon, and you will be relieved of this duty.” Reiner paused, reaching over to gently caress Bertholdt’s face. “But perhaps we should not talk of such grim things for now. We have been reunited for a few days, and that is a happy thing.” 

Bertholdt weakly smiled. “I agree. I would like to spend the day enjoying your company, if you are at the liberty to do so.” 

“I am. What did you have in mind?” Taking Bertholdt’s hand in his, Reiner led Bertholdt back up the hill towards the stables and the Golden Hall. 

Biting his lip, Bertholdt said, “I brought some items along, that I wanted to show you, and also, I had a tale that I wondered, if you would like to put into words. You are gifted with oral recitation.”

At this, Reiner immediately perked up. “You would like to create a story with me?” 

Bertholdt could hardly keep himself from grinning. “Of course, Reiner. Everything is still in my saddlebags, in the stables. I have yet to rent a room at an inn.” 

Together they entered the stables. Bertholdt grinned when his spotted horse whinnied at the twain. “Silmaril remembers me!” Reiner exclaimed gleefully, patting the horse’s neck. 

“Of course! He is a smart horse, and would not forget how you helped him. Or how you brought him many apples and carrots.” Bertholdt could hardly help but stroke his horse’s face. He had explained to Reiner, when they first met, how his horse’s white splotches surrounded by his black coat had reminded Bertholdt of the Silmarils in Morgoth’s crown. 

“And he has remained sound and free of colic?” Reiner asked. He did not wish Bertholdt’s horse any sort of ill will, but he would hardly complain about spending a few more days’ time with Bertholdt. 

“Yes, his health has been excellent since our first trip to Edoras. I would fear that, were Silmaril to go lame again, the Steward would insist upon me replacing him.” Bertholdt leaned in, resting his forehead against his horse’s broad face. “I do not think I could stomach that.” 

As if sensing a darker mood stealing over Bertholdt, Reiner spoke. “Where is your saddle? I am excited to tell a story with you! I know some tales of Gondor, but I would love to learn more.” 

Reiner’s enthusiasm was infectious. “All my belongings are right here,” Bertholdt said, pointing to where his saddle hung off a rack. He quickly unbuckled his saddlebags and shouldered them. “Goodbye, Silmaril,” Bertholdt said to his horse, and they left the stables. 

Bertholdt had found the innkeeper of the Gilt Bridle Inn fairly agreeable, the food of high quality, and rooms of reasonable price, so he decided that he would lodge there again. Having paid for his room, and ordered up a tankard of ale for Reiner and a glass of wine for himself, Bertholdt sat down across from Reiner at a table in the inn’s common room. 

“What did you want to show me?” Reiner asked curiously as Bertholdt rifled through his saddlebags. A barmaid placed the tankard of ale and glass of wine upon the table, along with a couple chunks of bread.

Bertholdt pulled out a large book with loose leaves sticking out every which way from it. The leather binding it was worn and stained, for it had seen too many spilled inkwells and overturned glasses of Dor-En-Ernil wine. Some of the pages were stained as well, and wrinkly from water damage. It was Bertholdt’s personal sketchbook, which contained many drawings of varying quality. Embarrassed by not a few of his drawings, Bertholdt tried to open the sketchbook at exactly the page he intended. He only half succeeded. His face flushing, Bertholdt quickly tabbed through the book to the page he was searching for. 

“I was so inspired by some of your stories, I had to draw them,” Bertholdt explained, turning his sketchbook so Reiner could gaze at the drawings properly. 

In smudged graphite and charcoal, different scenes were portrayed: one of a man falling from a skittish horse’s back, one of an armored man with flowing hair challenging the white charger, another of the same armored man upon his steed galloping into battle, and a fourth sketch of both king and horse laid to rest in a burial mound. 

Bertholdt looked up to see wonder in Reiner’s eyes. “Bertholdt, these drawings are beautiful,” he said breathlessly, his eyes returning to study the page again. 

Bertholdt could feel his cheeks turning hot. “I-I was feeling really inspired, when you told me that story, that when I returned to Minas Tirith I could hardly keep it from my mind. Many nights I stayed up burning candles while drawing. I could not get the story of Eorl the Young and his steed from my mind.” 

Reiner could hardly keep from grinning, it seemed. “Do you have any more drawings?” he asked. Bertholdt appreciated Reiner asking first, instead of just flipping through the whole book. 

“Sure, I think I drew out the story of Helm Hammerhand and Baldor son of Brego’s ill fated journey under the Dwimorberg…” 

At length, after Reiner had spent a fair amount of time gazing at Bertholdt’s sketches, he took a draught of his ale and asked, “so, what tale of Gondor did you want to weave with me?” 

“I recently found a great retelling of the Kin-Strife that began in the year 1437 of this Age,” Bertholdt explained, “and thought you might want to put it into an oral tradition. You have heard of the Kin-Strife?” 

Reiner shrugged. “Only vaguely. It was a civil war in Gondor, right?” 

Bertholdt took a drink of his wine, settling in to explain the history before they could begin on telling it as a story. “You are correct, the Kin-Strife was a civil war. When the King of Gondor, Valacar, married a woman from Rhovanion in the North, and she bore him a son, many Gondorians with the blood of Númenor felt that their son, Eldacar, was not fit to rule. They did not approve of his ‘mixed blood’, half Dúnedain, half of the Middle Men.” 

At this, Reiner scoffed. “Was the blood of the Middle Men not good enough for the Dúnedain? Was it worth starting a war over?” 

Bertholdt bit his lip. “The Dúnedain have long taken the ‘pureness’ of their bloodlines seriously, though there has been unavoidable intermingling with the other Men of Middle Earth… My father married a woman of Dale, when she bore him a son that was half Dúnedain also.” From the strange expression that passed over Reiner’s face, Bertholdt knew that Reiner understood what he meant. 

Taking yet another sip of his wine, Bertholdt shrugged and continued. “When Eldacar inherited the throne, this unrest turned to full rebellion, with its leader, Castamir the Usurper, murdering Eldacar’s son and forcing Eldacar into exile. During this rebellion, Osgiliath was burned, the Dome of Stars destroyed, and its Palantír lost. The great capitol of Gondor was ruined.” 

Reiner nodded with understanding. “So that is why Gondor’s capitol shifted to Minas Tirith. Did Eldacar ever returned to Gondor?”

“He did indeed. A decade later, Eldacar returned to Gondor with troops from Rhovanion. Simultaneously, a new rebellion against Castamir’s cruel reign took place. Eldacar was able to slay Castamir and resume his rightful throne, but Castamir’s sons escaped to Umbar, and as they controlled Gondor’s fleet, Eldacar was unable to pursue them. Thus, Gondor gained a new enemy in the Corsairs of Umbar.” Bertholdt paused. “Some of the houses of purest Númenórean blood were lost in the civil war, as well. The events of the Kin-Strife left Gondor weakened.” 

Reiner frowned slightly. “And this is the story you want me to tell?” he asked skeptically.

“I understand, it is not your usual fare of triumph in battle, but a story of grief belongs in an oral tradition as well,” Bertholdt replied. “After all, you did not know of its details, and you know many stories.” 

“You are probably right. Let us get started, then!” Bertholdt could tell, from the light in Reiner’s eyes, that he was already searching for the right words to begin his recitation. 

Bertholdt reached down to pull another book from his saddlebags. “I was really inspired by this author’s poetic phrasing of the fall of Osgiliath,” Bertholdt began, thumbing through the pages to find the place he had dog-eared. Finding it, he turned the book and placed it before Reiner, putting a finger to the line he had marked with a line of pencil. “See, it begins here, and continues until—“ Bertholdt looked up, and the words died upon his lips. 

Reiner was not looking at the book, but away in shame, his face red and his head hung low. Bertholdt gasped as he made the horrible realization he should have made months ago. Reiner had said to him, “ _here you are, sitting in the stable at night on a bale of straw, talking with a lowly rider of Rohan, listening to his oral histories because he cannot write them down in books…”_

“Bertholdt…” Reiner made eye contact for an instant, before looking away again. “I cannot read.” 

Bertholdt cursed himself silently. He should have known, he thought, frustrated with himself. “Reiner, I am so sorry, I did not mean to…”

For a moment, Reiner could not say anything. “I am sorry I am a disappointment to you,” he finally choked out. 

Bertholdt reached across the table to take Reiner’s hands in his. “No, I am the one who should be sorry. I should have known better. I did not mean to insult you.” 

“I… I know,” Reiner said. “Would you be kind enough to read to me, what is in your book?” His head was still hung with shame. 

While Bertholdt had felt certain that Reiner would feel disinterested with weaving a story now, after a few more draughts of his ale, he seemed to be more at ease. Soon enough, Reiner was beginning to put words together, his eyebrows furrowed in thought, and his face brightening every time he discovered the most emphatic way to phrase each line. Even with Reiner’s growing enthusiasm, it was still late into the evening before he felt confident enough to rehearse to Bertholdt the opening lines of his oral history of the Kin-Strife. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silmarils-- brilliant white jewels crafted by the Elves in the First Age. They were prized above all the wonders of the Elves and greatly coveted. 
> 
> Morgoth-- Dark Lord, original flavor. He was the Master of Sauron in the First Age. 
> 
> Helm Hammerhand-- a King of Rohan, who created the fortress of Helm's Deep during his reign. 
> 
> Baldor-- the son of King Brego, who dared the Paths of the Dead and did not survive. 
> 
> Middle Men-- the race of Men from which the Rohirrim, the men of Bree, and the men of Dale originate. 
> 
> Rhovanion-- a realm to the North. Mirkwood lies within it.


	4. The Horn of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner is in Minas Tirith again. On a February day, Reiner and Bertholdt hear the Horn of Gondor sound in the North. Bertholdt believes that the Captain of the Tower Guard, Boromir, has been slain. Reiner tries to comfort Bertholdt. Warning for mild sexual activity.

It was a quiet afternoon in Minas Tirith; the air was still and unseasonably warm for a late February day. Reiner sat upon one of the benches in the courtyard of the White Tree, content to sit in the sun and watch Bertholdt as he stood guard at the Tree. Reiner had been in the city a few days; he had taken it upon himself to deliver a short letter from the king of Rohan (which he knew was a forgery on the part of Gríma Wormtongue) upon some very insistent, almost vitriolic messages from the Steward of Gondor. It was no short ride from Edoras to Minas Tirith, so he wanted to give his horse and himself time to rest. And, of course, he wished to spend more time with Bertholdt. 

Most of the day Bertholdt was on duty, but this was the first day that Bertholdt had the Tree guard duty. Reiner had initially thought that guarding the Tree was a foolish exercise and a waste of man-hours, but Bertholdt had carefully explained the history of Gondor’s White Tree to Reiner. It was of critical importance to the culture of Gondor, and their guard ensured that no evil befell the Tree. Bertholdt had told him that the White Tree was the offspring of Nimloth the Fair, the tree that had stood in King’s Court of Númenor. Isildur had stolen a fruit from the tree before it was destroyed by Sauron, and he brought the sapling to Middle Earth. 

While Bertholdt’s narration had sadly left something to be desired, Reiner found inspiration from gazing at Bertholdt standing guard, clad in his black cloak and plate armor, with a helm made of Mithril (Bertholdt said they were an heirloom from ancient times). Every so often Bertholdt would shoot him a glance, as though asking why Reiner was awkwardly staring at him. Reiner’s mind was busy, though, crafting a tale about Nimloth the Fair and Isildur’s daring theft of the fruit, which came at the cost of grievous injury to Isildur’s person. He would ask Bertholdt for details, when Bertholdt got off duty, in case he needed them to fully round out his story. 

The afternoon seemed to grow very still; it almost made the hairs on the back of Reiner’s neck stand on end. And that is when he heard it— the faint voice of a great war horn, sounded in the distance. Immediately Reiner’s heart began to race. It must be some summons to battle, he thought, every muscle in his body as tight as a bowstring. He would fight, if they needed men. Reiner looked to Bertholdt for confirmation. 

The color seemed to drain from Bertholdt’s face even as Reiner watched. Bertholdt’s gauntleted hand gripped the shaft of his spear tightly. As he heard the war horn sound once more, Bertholdt’s face turned ashen grey. But he did not immediately jump into action, as Reiner would have expected of a battle summons. Bertholdt just stood there, trembling slightly, his expression one of recognition and fear. 

They did not hear the horn sound again. 

Reiner scooted on the bench so he sat as close to Bertholdt as possible. Trying to speak slowly, to mask his own worry, Reiner asked, keeping his voice low, “what was that, Bertholdt?” 

Bertholdt glanced back at the other guardsmen doing his duty. His voice wavering, Bertholdt replied softly, “the Horn of Gondor.” He took a slow, shuddering breath. “It is an heirloom of the house of Stewards. My Captain, the Lord Boromir, is the one who carries it.” 

Instantly, Reiner understood Bertholdt’s fear. “Your duty ends at the fifth bell?” Reiner confirmed, his voice a whisper. 

Bertholdt nodded. 

“I will return to the courtyard at the fifth bell, then. It would probably be best if I left you to your duty.” Reiner got up to leave, casting one last look at Bertholdt’s face. Even masked by the helm’s cheek guards as Bertholdt’s face was, Reiner could plainly see the intense anxiety there. Unable to do anything to comfort Bertholdt, Reiner felt very distraught himself. It seemed impossible to keep sitting in the courtyard, daydreaming, while Bertholdt kept his fearful watch. He was probably little more than a distraction. Reiner resolved to spend time with the horses, in the hopes that he would feel mentally prepared to deal with Bertholdt’s emotions when he got off duty. 

As he walked through the gates and turned his feet towards the stable, Reiner could not shake the feeling that maybe Bertholdt wanted Reiner to stay in the courtyard with him. Letting out a heavy sigh, Reiner stepped into the stables. “Hild!” he called out, smiling as he heard his horse whinny in response. 

Reiner’s smile grew wider as Hild reached her head out of her stall, her ears pricked forward. He really had a sweet mare, Reiner thought as he reached up to scratch her face. “Do you want me to groom you, Hild?” Reiner asked. Receiving a content snort in reply, Reiner went to fetch some brushes and a soft rag from a stablehand. Taking his time, Reiner stepped into Hild’s stall, letting her sniff all the brushes before he set to work. He could not recall letting her get her tail so tangled, and it felt like near an hour before he could run the comb through her dark grey tail without its teeth snagging on a new tangle. 

As Reiner buffed Hild with the soft cloth, making her coat shine, Reiner noticed Bertholdt’s own horse staring at him expectantly from the stall across the aisle way. “Do you want some attention too, Silmaril?” Reiner asked him, amused by how friendly the piebald had grown towards him. Hild nuzzled him with her big pink nose, as if demanding that Reiner return his attention to her. 

Reiner took the time to put braids in Hild’s mane. It would help keep straw out, and would have the added bonus of putting soft waves in her mane when he took the braids out again. She stood very patiently, but then nuzzled him again when Reiner stepped back to look at his handiwork. “You want a carrot? I know you,” Reiner asked Hild, pushing her nose away gently. He stepped out of the stall, fumbling in one of the saddlebags still attached to his saddle. “You happen in luck, because I have a carrot right here,” Reiner told his mare as he pulled a large, juicy carrot from his saddlebag. Reiner watched her eagerly chomp on her treat, before turning to look at Silmaril. 

Knowing that he still had a good deal of time before the fifth bell, Reiner stepped into Silmaril’s stall and set himself to grooming Bertholdt’s horse. Reiner felt very bad for Silmaril. It was obvious that the horse suffered from boredom. Unlike Edoras, there were not large, easily accessible yards for the horses in Minas Tirith, and instead the horses needed to remain stall bound most of the day. Reiner knew that Bertholdt tried to take Silmaril out almost every day, but an hour’s work under saddle was not the same as letting a horse run loose under the sky. Reiner found himself missing the far green pastures of his parents’ farm, where his mother’s mares grazed with their foals by their sides, and his father’s retired warhorses lived carefree days under the sun and peaceful nights under the moon. 

Eventually Reiner had buffed Silmaril to a shine, but the fourth bell had just been struck. Giving Silmaril his own carrot, Reiner internally debated what to do with the remaining hour before Bertholdt was released from duty. Finally he settled on cleaning his saddle as well as Bertholdt’s. When working with horses, Reiner could put from his mind how ashen Bertholdt’s face had been or the faint cry of the Horn of Gondor to the North. 

Reiner arrived in the courtyard of the White Tree only a few minutes before the fifth bell. Bertholdt silently traded his post with another member of the Tower Guard, looking unspeakably relieved to be off duty. 

“I would like to change clothes,” Bertholdt said quietly as they passed the gates to the sixth circle. 

Reiner acknowledged Bertholdt with a nod, following his lover as far as the courtyard in front of his quarters. As he waited for Bertholdt, Reiner could not help but feel bothered by Bertholdt’s silence, though he also felt unsure of what to say. He had never had to comfort Bertholdt before— what if the things that were comforting to Reiner were of little comfort to Bertholdt? 

Soon enough, Bertholdt returned from his quarters, dressed in a simple blue tunic and black trousers, tied about the waist. Reiner could not help but think that even when Bertholdt’s clothes were “simple”, there was still incredible embroidery on the edges. Bertholdt was always princely, in Reiner’s eyes. 

Wordlessly they began walking to the inn Reiner was lodging at. Reiner took Bertholdt’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “What do you wish to do for the evening? Are you hungry?” 

Bertholdt gave Reiner a small shrug. “Not hungry. Mostly… tired.” Bertholdt shifted his gaze to his feet, stopping in his tracks. Uncertainly, he looked into Reiner’s eyes. “I-I want to be held.” Bertholdt looked away quickly, as though he felt incredibly ashamed to admit this. 

Reiner felt some small concern at Bertholdt’s lack of interest in eating, but decided he would not press that for now. He would just have to make sure that Bertholdt ate a little something later. His own heart began to beat harder in his chest with Bertholdt’s words. “I can hold you,” Reiner confirmed, his mouth going a little dry. “D-do you want to go to my room?” 

Bertholdt gave Reiner a small nod. 

Feeling both excited and nervous, Reiner led Bertholdt into the inn and up the stairs to his room. As though suddenly ambivalent about his own desires, Bertholdt looked to the bed, and then sank a chair next to a small center table. Reiner gave Bertholdt space for the time being. 

“I- I- I do not think I am acting captain anymore, Reiner,” Bertholdt said suddenly, the color gone from his face again. “C-Captain Boromir, he is— he is not coming back.” Helpless tears began to leak from Bertholdt’s eyes. 

Reiner was unsure if he should encourage Bertholdt to speak further. He decided to light candles, for the setting sun was beginning to make the room very dim. 

“The Horn of Gondor, it- it is only sounded when need is dire,” Bertholdt continued, trembling slightly. “My Captain was in dire need today, and what could I do, but stand watch over a long-dead tree. I- I wanted to do something. B-Boromir, he was the closest I could call a friend in the T-Tower Guard, and now he is gone, l-leaving me with this duty that I cannot fulfill.” 

Reiner knew better than to voice his own concern about Bertholdt’s ability to be a successful captain. Instead, he sat down in the chair across from Bertholdt, taking his lover’s hands in his. “You do not know anything for sure, Bertholdt.” 

Bertholdt reached up with one hand to wipe the tears from his eyes, though more came to take their place. “I-It is said that the horn will never go unheeded.” As if expecting an optimistic reply from Reiner, Bertholdt added, “what if I was the only one who heeded the call? And what could I do, but continue my watch?” Bertholdt’s voice wavered, as though he were physically in pain. Reiner could understand, though. If his captain, Éomer, was in Boromir’s place, Reiner would have ridden through Hell to come to Éomer’s aid. 

“I-I admired Boromir. He was such a strong leader, and confident in his own abilities. He was able to stand up to the evil in the East.” Bertholdt let out a shuddering sigh. “He was everything I cannot be.” 

Hearing Bertholdt’s self-deprecation was like driving a knife through Reiner’s heart. He gave Bertholdt’s hands a strong squeeze. “Please do not say things like that, Bertholdt! You do not know your own strengths. You would not have been chosen to be acting Captain, if Lord Denethor did not see something in you.” 

Bertholdt gave Reiner an incredulous look. “The Captaincy is given to one of the nobility, or one of high military rank. As the son of a Dúnadan, which option seems most likely? And Lord Denethor, whatever he sees, it’s all in that Palantír. I know, because I have seen the odd lights that flicker in the uppermost chambers of the Tower of Ecthelion, and I know my history enough to know that the Stone of Minas Anor should still be here.” Bertholdt quickly fell silent, as though he knew he had said too much. 

Reiner’s mind was slightly reeling from Bertholdt’s outpouring, but he chose to focus on Bertholdt’s feelings surrounding the Steward. There was palpable anxiety. “Are you afraid of Lord Denethor?” 

Bertholdt nodded vigorously. He took a few shuddering breaths before speaking. “I am afraid of what he is becoming. What he will become, when he learns that his beloved son is dead.” Tears made their way down Bertholdt’s cheeks. “I am standing watch over a lord who is falling into madness, and I am scared.” With that, Bertholdt collapsed into tears, grieving for a friend and Captain, and overcome by anxiety for a future shrouded in darkness. 

Reiner got out of the chair to rub Bertholdt’s back soothingly. He wished there was something he could say, or do, anything to make the pain and fear go away. The only thing he could do, however, was to be there for Bertholdt while he wept. 

“Hold me close?” Bertholdt choked out through his tears. “Please?”

“Come here then, love,” Reiner murmured, pulling Bertholdt out of the chair and across the room to the large double bed. Bertholdt flopped down onto the bed; Reiner crawled in next to him, and wrapped his arms around Bertholdt’s shuddering frame. Tenderly, Reiner placed a kiss in Bertholdt’s black hair. 

Slowly, Bertholdt seemed to run out of tears. His breaths grew deeper again and the sniffling seemed to subside. Bertholdt tried to say something, but his throat was still too choked up. It took him a couple moments before he was able to get anything out. “I-I feel safe in your arms,” Bertholdt finally said, turning around so he could gaze into Reiner’s eyes. 

Reiner felt himself smile slightly. “That is because you are safe, Bertholdt,” Reiner replied, kissing Bertholdt’s forehead. 

The ghost of a smile graced Bertholdt’s face as he reached up to touch Reiner’s cheek, savoring the feeling of Reiner’s facial hair under his fingertips. “I love you,” Bertholdt whispered, tucking his head to Reiner’s chest. 

“I love you too, Bertholdt,” Reiner whispered back, readjusting his arm so that it did not fall asleep. 

For a while Bertholdt was content to lie like that. Reiner ran his hand through Bertholdt’s hair, trying to be as soothing as possible. He could not help but feel some elation, even in this dark situation, for this was the first time that he and Bertholdt had cuddled like this. They had shared close embraces, but those were nothing like being warm in bed with the person he loved. He hardly wanted to move, with Bertholdt’s head tucked to his chest, but eventually Reiner shifted a little in bed. Bertholdt’s head immediately snapped up. 

“Is everything all right?” Bertholdt asked, grabbing onto Reiner’s shirt. 

“Yeah, everything is all right,” Reiner said, leaning down to place another kiss on Bertholdt’s head. “Are you feeling hungry now?” 

Bertholdt seemed to consider for a moment, his eyebrows drawn close. “Not really,” he muttered. “My stomach hurts from crying.” 

Reiner had expected this. “Can I convince you to eat some bread with honey? That would be easy on your poor stomach.” 

Much to Reiner’s relief, Bertholdt nodded. “I think I can eat that,” he agreed. “Would you get me a glass of wine, too? I need it…” 

At that request, Reiner felt some concern. “I think water would be best after crying, Bertholdt.” 

“The glass of wine, it just… helps me sleep,” Bertholdt confessed. “I want to be able to sleep.” 

Reiner found himself running his fingers through Bertholdt’s hair in an attempt to soothe him. Internally he debated if he should say what came to his head; Bertholdt might think it too forward, or worse, inappropriate of Reiner. But maybe Bertholdt was simply too scared to ask. “Bertholdt… would you like to sleep with me tonight?” Reiner suggested. “Share a bed with me here, I mean? I will hold you until you fall asleep.” 

“I would like that very much,” Bertholdt said as he nuzzled Reiner’s chest, his voice muffled slightly. 

Reiner could hardly help but break into a smile. He could hardly contain his joy at the prospect of sleeping beside Bertholdt. “I am sorry to disturb you, but let me get you some food from downstairs. Here, I will pour you a glass of water.” 

A few minutes later Reiner had returned to their room with a loaf of bread and some honey to sweeten it. Reiner broke the loaf in half, sure to give the larger half to Bertholdt, and steadily ate his small daymeal. Bertholdt was slower to eat—though he was never a particularly hardy eater— but eventually finished his bread. Reiner was sure that Bertholdt drank a full draught of water. While Bertholdt seemed to harbor no ill feelings about Reiner denying him a glass of wine, his apparent dependence worried Reiner. He resolved to keep a close eye on Bertholdt for the rest of the night. Hopefully with Reiner beside him, Bertholdt would be able to sleep. 

Bertholdt curled up next to Reiner, resting his head on his chest. “Do you feel a little better, now that you have eaten?” Reiner asked, running his fingers through Bertholdt’s hair again. 

Bertholdt gave a small nod, his eyes shut. 

As the night darkened and the candles burned lower and lower, Reiner continued to hold Bertholdt until his arms began to fall asleep. Bertholdt still felt tense, so Reiner gently massaged Bertholdt’s shoulders with one hand, hoping to relieve the tension that way. He wanted to do whatever he could to make Bertholdt feel better and help him fall asleep.

Reiner almost started as Bertholdt lifted his head, his beautiful green eyes blinking open. Without a word, Bertholdt pressed his lips to Reiner’s in a deep kiss. It felt strange to Reiner, and at first he did not really know why. Bertholdt had kissed him with the same intensity before. But then Reiner realized, this was the first time they had kissed in bed, with Bertholdt’s body on top of his. Reiner felt his breath catch in his throat as Bertholdt pulled away, staring deeply into his eyes. 

“I love you, Reiner,” Bertholdt murmured, a strange intensity on his face. 

“I love you too, Bertholdt,” Reiner replied automatically, feeling confused and unsure of what Bertholdt wanted from him. 

Bertholdt’s expression seemed unsure, so Reiner reached to caress Bertholdt’s cheek fondly. “I-I am scared, Reiner. I-I feel like, like… we are approaching the final days of this war.” Bertholdt’s words were heavy with their implications.

Reiner was unsure what to say in response. He was not quite ready to come to terms with his own mortality yet. “That may be,” Reiner said carefully. 

“I am scared that… you will go back to Rohan, and that is this is the last time we will see each other,” Bertholdt continued, tears springing into his eyes again. “I-I know that it has always been like this, that there is no guarantee that we will be re-reunited, but,” Bertholdt let out a choked sob, “it feels so real now.” 

“Shh, shh,” Reiner murmured, rubbing Bertholdt’s back soothingly. Much to Reiner’s surprise, Bertholdt pressed his lips against Reiner’s again, sharing another deep kiss. 

As Bertholdt pulled away, Reiner caught the hints of a blush on Bertholdt’s cheeks, even in the dim candlelight. Bertholdt brushed away his tears. “I-I do not know if this is right, Reiner, but… I wish you would, um,” his next words were hardly more than a whisper, “make love to me.” 

Reiner started. Of all the things he could have anticipated coming from Bertholdt’s mouth, that was not anything he expected. “Bertholdt…” Reiner began uncertainly, studying Bertholdt’s face. 

From the nervous expression on Bertholdt’s face, it was clear he was second-guessing himself. “I just… want to feel your arms around me, and um, I just wish you would… comfort me. Th-there would be nothing but you, and me, and our l-love, and… wh-what if we never get the chance again?” 

Reiner hugged Bertholdt to his chest. “I promise you, we will see each other again,” he said firmly. Reiner felt distinctly guilty at the next words to come out of his mouth. “I do not know if I really want our first time to be like this… I want us to be happy, and energized, and our own bed, not with you grieving and so worried.” Reiner caressed Bertholdt’s cheek. “I am sorry.” 

Bertholdt was unable to keep a crestfallen look off his face. “Do not apologize, that was horribly forward of me. I am sorry, Reiner.” He rolled to the side, putting distance between himself and Reiner. 

“No, do not go,” Reiner murmured, reaching an arm around Bertholdt to pull him back. “I want you close to me.” He pressed a kiss to Bertholdt’s forehead. 

Bertholdt looked distinctly relieved. “I am glad you are not upset with me. I should not have said anything.” 

For a while Reiner just held Bertholdt close, unsure what to think of Bertholdt’s request. He knew too well what Bertholdt felt; there had been several times where he had wanted nothing more than to take Bertholdt back to his quarters at Edoras and make love, for fear they would never get another chance. But the time had not been right, and the time was not right now. That was enough for Reiner to know better. And yet, Bertholdt’s crestfallen look meant a great deal. He was in grief, and was looking for Reiner for comfort. Maybe Reiner could meet Bertholdt halfway. 

“Reiner?” Bertholdt asked softly. The candles had grown quite dim, to the point where the room was almost black. “I cannot sleep. My mind is too busy.” 

Leaning down to kiss Bertholdt’s head, Reiner sighed. “I wish I could quiet your head, so you could sleep.” 

“It is not that your presence is not comforting,” Bertholdt murmured. “The worry is just too big.” 

“I understand…” Reiner bit his lip. “I do not want you to reciprocate, but what if I, uh… pleasured you? Would that still be comforting, if only a little?” He felt his cheeks burning hot. 

In the darkness, Bertholdt’s facial expressions were hard to distinguish. However, Bertholdt’s arms tightened around Reiner. “Are you sure? I do not want to pressure you.” 

“If it brings you comfort, then I am sure.” 

“Please pleasure me.” Bertholdt’s lips met Reiner’s in a soft kiss. 

Reiner deepened the kiss ever so slightly, rolling over slightly so that Bertholdt was under him. “Tell me if I make you uncomfortable.” 

Slowly, Reiner pushed up the hem of Bertholdt’s tunic and reached underneath it with both hands. He let himself navigate by touch alone— the room was too dark for him to see anything distinctly. Reiner ran his hands sensuously over Bertholdt’s body, with little more than the punctuated gasps from Bertholdt to guide him. He noticed that Bertholdt was particularly sensitive to having his pectorals touched, so Reiner lingered there, before pulling Bertholdt off the bed slightly to feel his lover’s muscular back. His hands started at Bertholdt’s shoulders, feeling the well-muscled shoulder blades, before trailing down to Bertholdt’s lower back. Bertholdt let out a small gasp as Reiner’s hands crept down towards Bertholdt’s backside. 

Sitting up slightly, Reiner started as his arm brushed against the bulge in Bertholdt’s trousers. “Bertholdt, do you want me to…?” he whispered, awaiting Bertholdt’s consent. 

“Please,” Bertholdt whispered back, kissing Reiner deeply again. 

Feeling some nerves steal over him, Reiner reached his left hand into Bertholdt’s pants. He tried to ignore the invasive thoughts about the size of Bertholdt’s cock, but there was just so much… Reiner could feel his face flushing. “Bertholdt, uh, you have a very nice cock,” Reiner blurted, internally kicking himself over how stupid that sounded. 

Bertholdt sensibly relaxed, as though he had been worried about Reiner’s reaction. Feeling more confident, Reiner eased Bertholdt’s trousers down a little, so that he could have better access. And then he set to work in earnest, pausing only to shake out his wrist briefly, relishing the sounds of Bertholdt’s little gasps and moans as Reiner pleasured him. Bertholdt grabbed at Reiner’s shirt with both hands, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. 

Bertholdt tensed abruptly, lowly moaning Reiner’s name as he climaxed. His breathing was heavy. 

“Thank you, Reiner,” Bertholdt huffed, his voice full of adoration. 

Reiner pulled Bertholdt’s trousers back up. With a sigh, Reiner flopped down next to Bertholdt, feeling relieved at achieving the desired outcome. Bertholdt immediately cuddled up to him, his breathing still heavy. 

“Are you feeling better?” Reiner asked. Already Bertholdt felt better in his arms. The tension that had been in Bertholdt’s body earlier was now gone. 

Bertholdt gave a small nod, before yawning widely. “I love you so much, Reiner.” 

Feeling incredibly satisfied, Reiner hugged Bertholdt tightly. “I love you too. Think you can fall asleep now?” 

Bertholdt nodded again. Slowly, he seemed to drift off to sleep, still held in Reiner’s arms. His own eyelids feeling impossibly heavy, it was not too long before Reiner joined Bertholdt in dreams. 

—

Reiner was rudely awoken by Bertholdt lightly shaking him. “Reiner, wake up,” Bertholdt murmured. “It is daybreak, and I must go.” 

Blinking quickly to his senses, Reiner sat up a little too fast. The blood rushed to his head for a moment, before Reiner gained his bearings. The events of the previous day came to Reiner like a flood: the sounding of the Horn of Gondor, his wait for Bertholdt to be off duty, his attempts to comfort Bertholdt in the aftermath. 

“Will you be all right today?” Reiner blurted. “I do not want to leave you…” 

“Reiner, you must return to Edoras today. I will not risk you facing punishment for staying too long in the City,” Bertholdt said sternly. “I will be all right. Please take care of yourself? You promised to return to me.” 

“And I will,” Reiner replied, staring into Bertholdt’s emerald eyes. He could see plainly that Bertholdt did not want him to go at all. He was still terrified. It seemed almost unconscionable that he leave Bertholdt in such a state, but he knew that he had to depart that day. 

Reiner embraced Bertholdt closely, before sharing one last deep kiss. Then Bertholdt had to depart, leaving Reiner alone and afraid that they would never be reunited. 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written by my co-author, horridfalafel. 
> 
> Bertholdt has heard grim news from the Battle of Helm’s Deep, and is terrified to see what an urgent letter to him from Rohan could hold.

Bertholdt felt as if he had spent the last two days in a fog. Ever since receiving word of the Battle of Helm’s Deep, he had felt a sick feeling of dread and helplessness. With no way to know if Reiner was injured or even alive, he could do nothing but wait until more news arrived. 

Walking back from his guard shift, he remembered with anger how unmoved Lord Denethor had seemed by the words of the Rider who had broken the new to him. His voice had shaken slightly as he said it, standing under the uncaring gaze of the Steward. 

_“I bring grim news from Théoden King,”_  he had begun, pausing as if expecting some sort of response. He had received none. Following the death of Boromir, the Steward had been despondent. 

_“Following reports of orcs bearing the white hand of Saruman attacking near the Fords of Isen, Théodred son of Théoden led his eored to the area. He was slain along with all his men. Succession has passed to Éomer son of Éomund. Following his death and attacks by Saruman’s forces on the Westfold, Théoden King relocated the population of Edoras to the stronghold of Helm’s Deep. In the early hours of morning, the army of Saruman attacked Helm’s Deep, destroying the outer wall. Although his forces were defeated following the arrival of Erkenbrand, Éomer, and their men, many men were slain, including Háma, Captain of the King’s Guard.”_

He had gone on to say more, but Bertholdt had not heard it. Reiner had ridden with Éomer, he remembered. His death, compared to those of Háma and Théodred, would be of little note. Standing by as Denethor received the news impassively had been infuriating. He longed to blurt out the question of whether Reiner was dead or alive, whether he had been wounded in battle or remained hale, but on duty as he was, he could do nothing but watch. By the time he was allowed to leave, the Rider had already left the city, taking with him Bertholdt’s hope of finding an answer. 

Reaching the gate to the sixth level, he passed through and made his way towards his quarters, weary from worry and the seemingly endless hours of standing guard over a failing leader and a long-dead tree. If he could not have news, at least he could finally have a few hours of rest before the waiting began again the next day.

As he crossed the courtyard outside his quarters, however, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching behind him. With a sigh, he turned, expecting to see another member of the Tower Guard bringing him some undoubtedly grim message from the Steward.

To his surprise, the man before him looked to be an ordinary messenger. “Are you Bertholdt son of Anardil?” he asked breathlessly.

“Yes,” Bertholdt replied quickly, his heart suddenly pounding.

“I have a letter for you from Rohan, sent with great urgency,” the man continued, pulling a slightly battered, folded piece of parchment from a satchel at his side. He handed it to Bertholdt, who took it in trembling hands.

“Thank you,” Bertholdt choked out, his mouth dry from fear, fumbling slightly as he opened the letter. Although it bore his name, it had been left unsealed, either in haste or for lack of materials. He hardly took notice as the messenger turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had arrived.

His brows furrowed as he scanned the awkward, blotched lettering of the text. Not bothering to go inside, he began to read right there in the courtyard.

_Dear Bertholdt,_

_By now you haf herd of the batl at Helms Deep. I am writing to inform you that I am aliv and unhurt. Hild is also sayf, as is my family. I rode with Éomers eored and arryved at the end of the batl. Théoden has impruved greatly sins you werr heer, but has lost his only son.  We werr led by strayngers, but I cannot say much for fear of this letter being intersepted. Rohan will ryde to your aid when asked. I will see you soon. Stay sayf._

_With love,_

_Reiner_

_\- This is the first letter I haf sent. I am trying to teach my self to read. Thank you for inspyring me. -_

Reaching the end of the short letter, Bertholdt let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. He bit his lip, rereading the letter once, then twice more. Blinking, he fought not to cry as he read the letter again, holding it to his still-uniformed chest as his eyes became too clouded with tears to read any further. After all his worrying about Reiner, expecting to receive word of his death at Helm’s Deep, he could finally lay those fears to rest for now.

Realizing that he was receiving strange looks from passersby, Bertholdt brushed his tears away with his palm and turned abruptly to the door of his quarters, letting himself in with still-trembling hands. Inside the light was too dim to read, so he pulled aside the curtains to allow more light in. Sinking into the chair at his desk, he read over the letter one more time, even though by now he had it practically memorized.

It struck him then that Reiner had done an incredible job of learning to read in the few months since Bertholdt had last seen him, especially if, as he said, he had taught himself. Other than having unpracticed handwriting and making a few understandable spelling errors, his writing was astonishingly clear. Bertholdt could not help but feel proud of him, even if all he had done was provide Reiner with an incentive to learn. 

He would need to write a reply, he thought, reaching across his desk for his quill and ink. Taking a small piece of parchment from a stack on his desk, he dipped his quill in the ink and paused for a moment, thinking of what to say. Eventually, he decided to simply put down what he was thinking.

_Dear Reiner,_

_I am greatly relieved to hear of your safety. The news that we received here was grim, and I feared greatly for your wellbeing. I would have asked the Rider who came here to deliver the news had I not been on duty at the time. Being on guard duty can make one feel so powerless sometimes, as I am sure you know._

_I am interested to learn more about the recent events that you wrote of, but I think you are wise in waiting to tell me until we can speak in person._

_I am also very impressed with your writing skill! You must have a real talent for the written word. Keep practicing and you will be writing as well as anyone in no time. For now, I have included a few corrections to your spelling on the back of this letter. Please do not take this personally, as you did a very good job._

_You are probably right in saying that we will see each other soon. I hope that we meet next under good circumstances. I miss you every day and long to see your face again. I will do my best to stay safe, but you need to try to as well._

_With love,_

_Bertholdt_

Sitting back in his chair, Bertholdt set his parchment aside to dry. He would need to add the corrections to Reiner’s spelling later. It was too late in the afternoon to be able to send his letter today anyway. With a sigh, he stood up stiffly and began to change out of his uniform and back into everyday clothes.

Too tired to think of eating his daymeal just yet, he crossed his room and slumped onto his bed, still clutching Reiner’s letter. His eyes closed, he imagined Reiner hunched over some small desk at Helm’s Deep, hurriedly writing his letter to him after the battle had ended. How exhausted and how sad he must have felt after the long ride, fighting in the battle, and hearing of the deaths of so many of the Rohirrim.

Wiping away the tears that had begun anew, Bertholdt wished with all his heart that he could be there for Reiner now. He had missed Reiner terribly since they had been forced to part on that dark morning after he had heard the Horn of Gondor sound in the north. Few things could have been more comforting than Reiner’s arms wrapped around him, making him feel safe even in the face of what seemed like near certain tragedy.

Soon, he hoped, Reiner would come to Minas Tirith again. A great battle was coming, he feared, but at least when Reiner came they could fight side by side.


	6. The Siege of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great battle for Gondor has begun. Bertholdt waits for Rohan to come, witnesses Faramir be sent on a suicide mission, sees Denethor fall into madness, and leads his own company to defend the gates of Minas Tirith. He can hope for only one thing: for Reiner to rescue him. Warning for battle violence.

The dawn never came that day, but Bertholdt had anticipated that. Even so, he had found it nearly impossible to become fully awake; his mind was just too convinced that it was still the wee hours of the night and dawn was still some time away. Splashing water on his face and hardly helped, and his body still felt sluggish and heavy as he donned his armor, wiggling into the steel breastplate and fastening the bracers about his forearms. Even his small breakfast of bread and butter with a cup of milk had not rendered him fully awake. 

As Bertholdt threw his cloak about his shoulders, fastening it with a silver brooch depicting the Sun and the Moon, and reached out to grasp his spear and shield, he heard a sound that made his blood run cold and his heart race like it would stop at any second. It was the high, piercing shriek of one of the Nazgȗl, a Ringwraith. He knew the screech from his time in Ithilien, as a young ranger, and it filled him with the same cold terror it had when he was younger. Fearful that the battle had begun while he had been sleeping, Bertholdt seized his spear and shield before dashing out of his quarters and out into the courtyard, stopping only at the edge of the wall in the hopes he could see what was going on. 

Five terrible beasts wheeled in the sky over the Pelennor, dogging a group of horsemen. Faramir and his rangers, Bertholdt realized, his heart hammering in his chest. He could only gaze, horrified, knowing that at any moment the Nazgȗl’s black beasts would seize the horsemen and drop them to their deaths. This was more horrible than hearing the Horn of Gondor— here he was about to witness the death of another captain and friend, and he could do absolutely nothing about it. 

Just as Bertholdt was about to turn away, unable to watch the slaughter, a white light made its way across the Pelennor towards the horsemen galloping frantically to the gate. It seemed capable of driving off the Nazgȗl, though how, Bertholdt did not know. The five fell beasts wheeled away from the white light and flew back towards the East. 

Letting out a breath of incredible relief as the riders made the gate of Minas Tirith, Bertholdt turned from the wall and made haste to the Citadel. It was time for his duty to begin, and as Captain of the the Tower Guard, he was expected to stay by the Lord Denethor’s side as he took counsel with the leaders of Gondor’s armies. He strode on still slightly shaking legs to the throne room, his heart still struggling to calm itself. Bertholdt gave his Lord Denethor a deep bow, before taking up his place behind the Steward’s chair.

It had not been a half hour before the wizard Mithrandir and the Lord Faramir were admitted into the throne room. The Halfling that had come to the city with Mithrandir— and joined the Tower Guard no less, Peregrin Took was his name— was hot on their heels. Bertholdt gave Peregrin a polite nod as he took up a seat by Denethor’s feet; Bertholdt received a somber nod in return.  

The counsel began. Bertholdt focused more attentively than ever to what was spoken, now that Mithrandir brought confirmation of Boromir’s death and Captaincy had been passed to him. It felt strange to Bertholdt, like he was listening in on a conversation he was not truly meant to hear. The first part of the counsel was almost mundane— talk of movements of Haradrim in Ithilien. But then Faramir’s eyes focused on Peregrin, and he began to tell a strange tale of two Halflings he had found in Ithilien, and the great evil they carried with them. 

Bertholdt’s heart began to race again, beating its awkward rhythm that always made him feel like his heart would stop if it beat too quickly. So the rumors were true: Isildur’s Bane, the One Ring, had been found. Bertholdt tried to look impassive, like the statuary that adorned each alcove in the throne room, but he was certain that his shock and fear was visible to anyone who glanced at his face. 

Suddenly the conversation shifted to Boromir, sending chills down Bertholdt’s spine. Denethor lamented Boromir’s death, and turned his vitriol on Faramir. 

“I wish I had known your counsel before so weighty a judgement was thrust upon me,” Faramir said, his voice rueful. 

“And how would my counsel have altered your judgement, Faramir?” Denethor remarked coldly. “Ever you desire to appear lordly, gracious, like a King of old. Those times are long past. In these hours, such kindness will be repaid with death.” 

Bertholdt watched as Faramir’s resilient demeanor seemed to crumble about him. “So be it.” 

“So be it!” Denethor exclaimed, “But not with your death only, my Lord Faramir, but with the death of your father, and of all your people, whom it is your duty to protect now that Boromir is gone.” 

The color had drained from Faramir’s face. Bertholdt wanted to say something, wanted to tell Faramir that he was not alone and there were others, himself included, who saw it as their duty to protect the people of Gondor. But it was not his place, and he had to stay silent. 

“Do you wish then, that our places had been exchanged? That I had died and Boromir had lived?” Faramir’s voice was full of acquiescence.  

“Yes, I wish that,” Denethor confessed, grief dripping from each word. 

Bertholdt could hardly believe the words that came from Denethor’s mouth. His heart ached for Faramir; here was a gentle, kind man who was coping with the loss of his brother, he deserved empathy. Bertholdt had witnessed Denethor’s favoritism for years, but he had never anticipated hearing such cruelty from his Lord. It left Bertholdt feeling very cold inside. 

The counsel turned to discussion of Osgiliath and its fortification. Bertholdt paid little attention despite himself. He was transported to a time where he was a small child, hoping for a glass of milk or a small white cake before bedtime, and on his way to the kitchens overheard too many late-night arguments between his parents. Denethor’s regret for his son’s existence reminded Bertholdt uncomfortably of those fights. While Bertholdt knew he had been an accident, he was never fully prepared to hear his own father’s exclamation of _“if you did not want Bertholdt in the first place, why did you not induce a miscarriage?!”_

Finally a decision was made. Faramir would be sent to fortify the garrison on the western side of Osgiliath. Bertholdt was jolted from his own thoughts by Faramir’s soft voice, his tone full of quiet resignation. 

“Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead. But should I return, think better of me, father.” Faramir bowed low and made to leave the throne room, but Denethor’s sneering voice paused him.

“That will depend upon the manner of your return.” And Faramir left. 

As Denethor made to eat his midday meal, Bertholdt was dismissed from duty for a time. Everything about his body felt impossibly heavy. Earlier he had felt some small elation at seeing Faramir so timely spared from death. Now he knew that Faramir had been sent out to near certain death, and there was little Bertholdt could do about it. 

“Can you sing, master Hobbit?” Denethor asked, his voice hard as steel. 

Bertholdt paused, out of sight, waiting for Peregrin’s answer. 

“Yes, well enough for my own people, but we have no songs fit for great halls and evil times.” The Halfling’s voice barely hid a heavy sigh. 

“And why should such songs be unfit for my halls?” Denethor retorted. “Sing me a song.” 

As Peregrin’s voice began to fill the hall, his tune mournful and the words wistful, Bertholdt felt tears spring to his eyes. But he stood transfixed, listening while his heart felt as though it was breaking into a thousand pieces. 

> _“Home is behind, the world ahead_
> 
> _And there are many paths to tread_
> 
> _Through shadow, to the edge of night_
> 
> _Until the stars are all alight_
> 
> _Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,_
> 
> _All shall fade, all shall… fade.”_

Before the final note had faded, Bertholdt stepped out of the hall, blinking the tears from his eyes. His stomach felt too ill to eat, but he returned to his quarters and took a draught of wine. Reiner would scold him, Bertholdt thought grimly, like he had the night they had shared a bed, weeks ago when the grief of Boromir’s death was a fresh wound in his heart. 

But Reiner was not here to scold him. None of the Rohirrim were here. Supposedly Théoden recognized the old alliances between Rohan and Gondor. But the Beacons had been lit, the Red Arrow sent, there was no plainer way to state that Gondor was in dire need. And yet there was no host of Rohan. As Bertholdt drained his glass, he glanced to see the letter that Reiner had sent him, immediately after the Battle of Helm’s Deep. _Rohan will ryde to your aid when asked. I will see you soon. Stay sayf._ Bertholdt was not sure if Reiner’s statement carried weight anymore. He would try to stay safe, but he was not sure if they would see each other soon. 

His duty began again after his short nuncheon of wine and the last of the winter apples. Bertholdt returned to the throne room to wait behind Denethor and listen in on the counsel. The fighting at Osgiliath was going ill, men were retreating with Sauron’s hordes at their heels. The Prince of Dol Amroth was appointed to lead a sortie to bring aid to Faramir’s companies. Through all this talk, no one asked what Bertholdt, acting Captain of the Tower Guard, thought. His own voice was not valuable in war counsels; he was just there to guard the Steward. At some level, Bertholdt envied Reiner for his close friendships with the leaders of the Rohirrim. He was able to inspire action. Bertholdt could do nothing but watch passively. 

The afternoon dragged by and became evening, but the sky did not change much. Dread stole over Bertholdt. Outside the throne room, he could only imagine what the Pelennor looked like, and the thought of seeing the host of Sauron in person tied knots in his stomach. Not for the first time that day, Bertholdt hoped for some unlooked-for reprieve from Reiner, but none came. 

Presently, the great doors were opened to admit the Prince of Dol Amroth, and, carried on a stretcher, Lord Faramir. Bertholdt could tell from one glance that Faramir was grievously wounded. His heart plummeted as he realized how alone he felt; the two Lords who had offered Bertholdt the most courage were gone. There was little hope in Bertholdt’s heart that Faramir would survive his wounds, and Reiner was not going to ride to his aid to inspire him to be brave in the face of such evil. 

With a small flick of his wrist, Denethor gave Bertholdt the signal that he was free to go. Relieved of his duty for the day, Bertholdt left the throne room and, against his better judgement, went to peer over the wall to gaze and the Pelennor. He reeled back upon his first glance, and did not dare look again. Gazing up at the uppermost windows of the Tower of Ecthelion, Bertholdt noticed the strange, yet familiar lights that flickered in the windows. Denethor was looking into his Palantír, Bertholdt surmised, trying to gaze into the future perhaps. Feeling the creeping feeling that he was living his last day on Arda, Bertholdt began walking to his quarters. 

Suddenly the thought of being “off duty” and indolent became intolerable to Bertholdt. Reiner would not accept such behavior. Reiner was the kind who fought to exhaustion, fought to his last, and Bertholdt would try to do the same. 

Upon reaching the living quarters of the Tower Guard, Bertholdt was accosted by three of those in his company, all three bearing intensely grim expressions on their faces. “Captain Bertholdt!” The most senior of them cried. “We have received no news on the status of the lower levels of the city, but the first level is supposedly on fire and nearly besieged. We ask you, Captain, if you would accompany us to the lower levels and help form a report to the Lord Denethor. We fear he will not admit anyone but the Captain of the Tower Guard.” 

Bertholdt gave his men a strong nod. “I understand. I am off duty now and am at liberty to go down to the lower levels.” Bertholdt took a deep breath, wondering what Reiner would say or do in such a situation. 

Receiving a grim nod of understanding, Bertholdt broke off at a run down to the first level, his men close behind him. 

From the wall of the second level Bertholdt could see plainly that the enemy had amassed siege towers and was slowly rolling them towards the walls. Catapults were stationed out of range of archers. Bertholdt continued running until he had reached the gate of the first level, his ceremonial sword slapping against his thigh. 

Almost immediately something— a small rock, it seemed— just barely missed striking Bertholdt down. Even as he had taken a quick step to avoid the projectile, he felt it graze him. It did not feel quite as hard as a rock, but the speed at which it was falling might have skewed his perception. The projectile slammed into the stonework with a crash of metal, and as it bounced away from Bertholdt, he saw plainly that it was no rock at all, but the helmeted head of a fallen man of Gondor. 

Bertholdt felt sick as he dashed away from the disembodied head and thicker into the smoke that permeated the first level. Much of it was in flames, the smoke oppressive and noxious. It stung Bertholdt’s throat and made it nigh impossible to breathe. Men streamed past him, looking to the relief of the second level. Bertholdt feared that soon the unnatural flames of Mordor would pass to the second level as well. 

Permeating the air were the cruel-sounding chants from the orcs of Mordor, and the shrieking cries of the Nazgȗl far above the smoke. The screams pierced Bertholdt’s ears and froze him in place with fear, his heart racing impossibly fast again in his own terror. He came nigh to being scorched by the fire, for while trapped in his fear a projectile landed only feet away from him and burst into flame. Only a panicked jerk on Bertholdt’s cloak had alerted Bertholdt to the danger in time. 

Bertholdt had seen enough, and with a shout to gain his men’s attention, they quickly made their way back up to the Citadel. He needed to think of the best words to say to Denethor, any way to remind the Steward of the great peril they were in. He had little doubt now that the Lord of the City was stark mad, but he had to try. Without clear leadership, Minas Tirith would fall. 

Making his way to Faramir’s chambers, Bertholdt made an attempt to take deep breaths and finalize exactly what he would say to Denethor. His heart pitter-pattered in his chest out of fear as he knocked upon the door. Peregrin the halfling greeted him. 

“Tell the Lord Denethor it is the acting Captain of the Tower Guard, with urgent news on the status of the lower levels of the City,” Bertholdt said quickly. 

Peregrin disappeared a moment, only to reappear and hold the door open for Bertholdt. He was completely unprepared to see how his Lord had changed. Denethor seemed broken, his face death-like; his eyes lacked the cold and calculating gleam that they had possessed in the morning. He sat hunched in the chair, watching his son succumb slowly to fever, and did not turn his head to look at Bertholdt.

“My Lord Denethor, the first level of the City is in flames,” Bertholdt began, fighting to keep his voice from wavering. “Who shall you appoint captain of your armies? You are still in command of the City, and not all will follow Mithrandir without your authority. Men are swiftly deserting the first level and allowing the fire to burn unchecked. It will spread to the second level ere long.” 

Denethor did not even turn his head. “Fly? Why do the fools fly? Better to burn sooner than late, for burn we must. Go back to your bonfire!” 

The Steward’s words struck fear deep into Bertholdt’s heart, deeper than any screech from the Nazgȗl. “My Lord, the City will fall without your commands.” 

Bertholdt felt goosebumps crawl over his skin as Denethor transfixed him with his piercing gaze. “The City will fall with or without my commands. I dismiss you, Bertholdt son of Anardil, from my service. Your time as Captain of the Tower Guard was brief, and the time left to you is even briefer. Take your men of the First Company; go back and burn!” 

Without another word, Bertholdt spun around and fled from the chamber, his men close behind. Glancing at his subordinates, Bertholdt saw that their faces were pale as in death. “What do we do, Captain?” one asked, his voice wavering. 

Bertholdt swallowed hard and turned to face his men. “We protect this City, as we have been tasked to do. I trust the men of the Third Company to do their duty and protect the White Tree to the last; not that I can command them to do so anymore. I-I will muster the First Company and we will go down to the first level.” 

As Bertholdt reached the housing of his company, he sent his men in to arm themselves and awaken the other members. Alone in the courtyard, Bertholdt turned around to gaze out at the Pelennor. Dawn could not be too far off now. The smoke from the fires in the first circle was rising; Bertholdt could almost taste it on the air. The din of battle seemed louder than before, and stepping out to the wall Bertholdt realized that the orcs’ siege towers had made it to the outermost wall. 

“Captain Bertholdt!” 

He turned around to see his company— a force of twenty men, clad as he was in plate armor, spears and shields in hand, and their faces set in stone. This was Bertholdt’s time to make Reiner proud, he thought mirthlessly. It was his chance to be a true leader for once, which was terribly ironic considering that he had been dismissed and that his stint as a true leader was going to be brief. Bertholdt did not expect to return from the first level. He had nothing to return to— Reiner had abandoned him. 

“T-the Lord Denethor has gone mad, and dismissed me, along with my company,” Bertholdt began, speaking slowly to cover his voice wavering with nervousness. He paused as a murmur passed through his men. When all was quiet, he continued. “I do not ask it of you to follow me. You are your own men now, and can make your own choices. You are under no obligation to follow my commands.” Bertholdt could feel something stir within him, perhaps his own confidence. The next words he spoke were emboldened. “I have no obligation to my Lord now, but I have an obligation to Minas Tirith, and I will fight to my last breath, so that this City will not fall while I have life to defend it. What about you?” 

For a moment the Company was silent. Then, with voices that sounded bolder than his own, a chorus of cheers and affirmations went up. It seemed as though Bertholdt had swayed them to his purpose. “Will you fight alongside me, one last time?” Bertholdt asked. 

“We are still men of the Tower Guard, whether Lord Denethor wishes it or no,” the most senior of the company said. “We will fight.” Shouts confirming support for Bertholdt followed, filling his heart up with resolve. 

“To the first level, then.” 

As Bertholdt had feared, the second level was now in flames, though the first level seemed to burn more brightly. Many men were gathered behind the gate, and there was a ruckus of mens’ shouts and the foul cries from the orcs that were running unchecked in the first level. Upon the arrival of Bertholdt and his Company, many faces brightened, and shocked and surprised, the Prince of Dol Amroth, Prince Imrahil, called out to them. 

“Is it not against the law of the Steward, for men of the Tower Guard to leave the Citadel save at their Lord’s command?” 

Bertholdt had prepared for this question as he marched down to the lower levels. “The Lord of the City has given us leave,” he said as calmly as he could, though his voice still wavered. “We come to fight.” 

It seemed that their arrival had brought courage to many. Commands were given that a force would stay on the second level to defend the gate. The majority would rush down to the first level and clear it of the orcs that had come over the wall in the siege towers. A heavy pit settled in Bertholdt’s stomach. He was prepared for whatever end. 

The gates lurched open and with a shout, the men of Gondor streamed into the first level. Immediately they were met with the foul faces of the orcs, letting out squeals of alarm (or perhaps delight) as Gondor came to meet them. The moment Bertholdt charged into the first level, every action became crucial for his survival. Immediately he was met by opponents on both sides— he used his shield to deflect an incoming blow from the blunt scimitar of an Uruk, while impaling a small orc on his right with his spear. Within minutes, his shield and armor was flecked with the black blood of orcs. 

Bertholdt was trained as a spearsman, and with such weapons he excelled, but in close quarters his spear felt like more of a hindrance. He could not trust himself enough with the sword to abandon his spear quite yet. He struck one of his foes with a mighty blow to his temple, managing to maintain control so that a quick jab forwards placed the point of his spear square in the lungs of another orc. Panting from the exertions of the fight, Bertholdt found that the acrid smoke made him short of breath. It seemed to have no such detriment on Sauron’s host, though. They continued as if invigorated, while around him his men seemed faint. 

A thrill of fear raced through Bertholdt as he missed a block and a pike hit him hard in his abdomen. His plate caused the blow to ricochet, but it left the muscles of his stomach spasming, and it took all of Bertholdt’s willpower to not double over in pain. Sensing his moment of weakness, an Uruk made an attempt to cut at his spear arm, but he was rescued by a timely strike from one of his men. The Uruk’s head rolled away from his body; Bertholdt gave his rescuer a quick nod of thanks. Faster than lightning, the same man was struck down by a Moria goblin who had driven its curved sword into the man’s side. 

Bertholdt let out a furious roar, running the foul goblin through with his spear. Other foes closed in around him, distracting his attention, but Bertholdt had seen the man in his dying gasps, blood spurting from the fatal wound. 

Presently, a riot was heard beyond the walls, as though the orcs were rallying around something. At first he could not make out anything other than indistinct shouts, but the many voices soon coalesced around one word. “ _GROND!_ ” the servants of Sauron cried in one horrible voice. “ _GROND! GROND!”_

Breaking out of the thick of the fight, Bertholdt ran up to the top of the wall, skipping steps in his haste. His heart in his throat, he gazed upon the weapon of war that the orcs were cheering on. Knowing too well that the Gates of Minas Tirith would not break from a tree-trunk, the servants of Sauron had crafted a massive battering ram, drawn by great beasts that moaned from the exertion. The ram itself was shaped like a cruel wolf, its teeth bared in a horrible snarl with flames licking between its lips. Bertholdt knew it was named for Morgoth’s warhammer, the Hammer of the Underworld, and could not suppress the intense feeling of dread. This battering ram of Sauron was capable of breaking the gates of the City, and undoubtedly would. 

Bertholdt made an attempt to summon his men to him, but the cry that came out of his mouth was weak and hardly carried. Trying to imagine Reiner’s booming voice, Bertholdt shouted, “Men of the Tower Guard, to your Captain!” 

Somehow it succeeded. Eighteen men of his original twenty mustered to him. “Our enemy plans to bring down the gate. We must bring our strength there.” 

Bertholdt fought his way to the large courtyard of the first level, where a statue of Anárion on horseback stood. All around him were the screams of orcs and the shouts of men, and cries from Mithrandir beseeching the archers to bring down the trolls that manned the battering ram. Bertholdt had the sinking feeling that the trolls were out of the range of all but Lord Faramir’s rangers, and many of them had been wounded or killed in the disastrous attempt to hold Osgiliath. 

The shouts of _GROND_ grew louder and faster, until the chant felt ingrained in Bertholdt’s ears. Then, with a thunderous crash, the gates of Minas Tirith shook, but remained intact. “No matter what comes through this gate,” Bertholdt yelled to his men over the chants, “we will hold our ground.” 

As soon as those brave words came out of Bertholdt’s mouth, his own courage plummeted. He heard an awful voice from the other side of the Gate, speaking in the Black Speech, or something more horrible. It seemed to enliven the hosts of Mordor, and the chants grew stronger. 

Another thunderous crash. To Bertholdt’s horror (though not surprise), the snout of the terrible wolf had broken through the gates. Its fiery mouth illuminated the courtyard briefly, before being drawn back out of sight. 

On the third swing Grond broke the Gates. As though lightning had struck them, they burst into fragments, raining down splinters of wood and steel upon the men of Gondor. Bertholdt raised his shield in time to deflect a shard of wood that would have otherwise caused him a grievous wound. 

Into the City rode the Lord of the Nazgȗl, the Witch-King of Angmar. Unable to control their fear, Bertholdt’s men fled from the front lines, and Bertholdt felt himself retreat involuntarily. His heart felt frozen as with fear. No enemy had ever entered through the Gates in the history of Minas Tirith. 

Bertholdt’s heart had known all along that he had come to the Gates of Minas Tirith to die, but now both his mind and heart were joined, for now he knew exactly how he was going to die. No one could kill the Nazgȗl, but he had little choice. For the sake of dying with honor and in the name of defending his City, Bertholdt would fight against the Witch-King, even though he wanted with all his heart to run away to some dark corner. 

Mithrandir on his great white horse stood before the Witch-King. “Go back to the Shadow!” Mithrandir cried, “fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!” 

The Witch-King hardly seemed deterred. Letting out a laugh that felt as though it would peel Bertholdt’s flesh away to the bone, the Lord of the Nazgȗl hissed, “Old fool, do you not know death when you see it? This is my hour!” The Witch-King drew his sword; unearthly flames ran along the blade. 

All was lost. The City was about to fall, and Bertholdt knew it. The courage that had filled his heart when he summoned his Company had now deserted him, living him wishing for nothing but a quick, clean death. Reiner would learn later that Bertholdt was slain when Minas Tirith fell, though it would not matter too much. Edoras would fall in a short time, for Sauron’s host would not be stopped, and Bertholdt would be reunited with Reiner in death. Bertholdt tried to recall happy memories— teaching each other words of Sindarin and Rohirric while caring for Silmaril, the first kiss that they had shared upon the walls of Minas Tirith, how Reiner had given the Gilt Bridle Inn a rousing tale of the Kin-Strife even after Bertholdt had unintentionally humiliated him… how Reiner had pleasured his body with such gentle touches. He wanted his last thoughts to be of the man he loved with all his heart. 

At that very moment, a rooster crowed. Dawn had finally come again. And in the distance, the rooster’s crow was met with the sounding of horns— not the ugly horns of orcs or Haradrim, but the wild war horns of the Eorlingas. It was something out of one of Reiner’s tales. Rohan had finally come. 

Immediately the Witch-King withdrew from the Gates. Unable to restrain himself, Bertholdt gave a wild cheer of pure joy and relief, tears leaking from his eyes. Around him, the men of his Company echoed his cheer, and suddenly the men of Gondor were alive with shouts of “Rohan has come!”; new energy flowed through them. Filled with new life, Bertholdt led his men in a charge, striking down a tall orc chieftain with his spear and ripping it from his body with an aggression he had never felt before. As quickly as the despair had settled upon Bertholdt, it lifted and left him with the willpower to smite his enemies and defend his City. 

Most importantly, Bertholdt needed to stay alive. True to his promise, Reiner had come for Bertholdt, and they would see each other soon. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mithrandir-- the name of Gandalf in Gondor.


	7. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written by the lovely horridfalafel.
> 
> This story tells of Reiner’s side of the Battle of Pelennor Fields. On riding to Minas Tirith, the Rohirrim find the city in flames and Reiner fears the worst. Terrified for Bertholdt, his own life is in peril as he is forced to fight for his life against all manner of monsters in one of the greatest battles of his time. Warning for battle violence and blood/gore.

Reiner knew the road to Minas Tirith well. Even in the unnatural darkness, his heart began to beat faster as the host of Rohan approached the final hill overlooking the great city. He had looked forward to seeing Bertholdt for so long, but now that he was finally approaching his home, he was afraid of what he might see.

For the last few miles, he had caught the scent of smoke on the wind. Now it was so strong that he could practically taste it. Its smell sent a thrill of fear through his heart. Perhaps the men of Gondor had simply burnt the plain of the Pelennor to hold off the enemy. But that explanation seemed too much to hope for. 

As his mare crested the hill, his heart plummeted. Lightning flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the scene before them, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Around the city were countless orcs crawling like ants towards the walls, armed with siege towers that had already breached the lowest levels. The city itself was on fire, the first two levels seeming completely engulfed by flame. 

A collective murmur rushed through the men around him. They were too late, Reiner thought. Bertholdt was a fighter, one of the best men of Gondor. If he could fight, he would. He would have been down at the city gate when it was breached. The chances of him surviving the ensuing onslaught were slim. Reiner felt irrationally angry at himself, blinking back tears of rage. The king had stalled on riding to Gondor, hoping to amass a greater host. Few more men had come, though. It was pointless if Minas Tirith fell before they even arrived. Now it appeared that the city had fallen. 

Around him, the men sounded their horns, in a rising sound as loud as the thunder they had heard before. If Gondor heard them, there was no answer. Giving no sign of dismay, Théoden rode out in front of his host. Defiantly, he turned back to speak. Reiner sat taller in the saddle as he heard his voice, loud and clear even over the sounds of the battle. 

“Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden! Fell deeds await: fire and slaughter! Spear shall be shaken, shield shall be splintered, a sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now! Ride now! Ride to Gondor!”

With that, he drew his sword and looked towards his men. Galloping Snowmane along the front of the first éored, he clattered his sword over their spears before turning once more towards the battlefield. Again he sounded his horn, joined by all others who could answer.  

Pointing his sword towards the battlefield, he opened his mouth to shout. “DEATH!” 

Drawing his sword as well, Reiner joined in the cry, feeling strengthened by his anger. If he were going to die, then he would take out as many of the creatures that had killed Bertholdt as possible. He had little to hope for. He screamed until his throat felt raw and Théoden began to lead the charge down the hill, his horse surging forward under him. Holding tight to her with his legs, he stayed by Éomer, bracing himself as they drew level with the enemies on the plain.

Hild leapt over the first line of orcs, stumbling slightly as she trampled over the ones behind them. His teeth bared, Reiner slashed at them with his sword, cutting through them savagely as his horse galloped forward. Soon his blade was stained black along its entire length with their blood. Around him, the black-fletched arrows of the orcs fell, striking down several horses of the men in Éomer’s éored, but somehow leaving him and Hild unharmed. She shied from a falling horse, striking out at an orc with one of her hooves. 

He felt as though they had crossed the entire field, but still before them were countless enemies. He focused instead on the orcs immediately around him, bearing down on one that had turned to run from him as it saw him approaching. Mercilessly, he sliced its head off with one clean cut.

The faintest hint of morning light began to show behind the clouds, providing contrast to the orange glow of the fires in the cities and enemy camps. To the south, he saw the king ride to meet the leader of the Haradrim in battle, his men behind him.

His horse slowed, tossing her head in agitation as they ran into a crush of orcs. Reiner blocked one’s strike with his shield, leaning off the side of his horse to stab at an orc that was fighting a rider who had fallen to the ground. The rider gave him a grateful nod as the orc fell bleeding at his feet, clutching at a deep gash in its neck. 

Suddenly, Hild reared up in fear, a terrified sound escaping her. Reiner grunted, his legs tightening around her. Around them, the sky grew dim again. Feeling sick, Reiner looked up to see the sky blotted out by the black wings of a fell beast. The scream of the Nazgûl that rode it seemed to rend the air, feeling like a nail driven into his skull. Holding his sword hand to his helmet, Reiner squinted, struggling desperately to keep his focus. He felt as if he were going blind, the sound terrifying the horses around them, sending them running wild in every direction. 

The fell beast landed a few hundred yards to his right, its batlike wings folding around it. With horror, Reiner realized that it had overtaken Théoden. 

“Ride to the king!” Éomer shouted beside him, his voice betraying his fear. “To the king!” 

Trying to regain control of Hild, Reiner urged her on after Éomer, towards the very creature that she seemed to fear most. Between them and the Nazgûl, the enemy had rallied. Reiner found it impossible to look to his king, instead forced to concentrate all his attention on the fight. 

Strangely, the orcs seemed to fall away from them as they approached the fell beast. As they drew near to it, the horses shied away, snorting anxiously. Glancing towards the beast, Reiner was surprised to see it lying dead, its head severed cleanly from its body. Its rider, the Nazgûl that had terrified both horses and men earlier, lay in a crumpled heap. Eerily, its armor seemed empty and crushed, as if it had imploded upon itself. Distracted as he was by the sight, Reiner barely noticed as Éomer dismounted and walked towards one of the fallen riders who lay trapped beneath a snow white horse.

The fallen rider was Théoden King, Reiner realized, looking on in despair as Éomer approached him. Moments later, he turned away, tears in his eyes. Reiner dropped his head, staring at Hild’s dark grey mane. Only weeks before, the king had recovered his senses and become strong again, seeming sure to lead his people to victory. But now he was dead on a foreign field. He had been like a father to Éomer and his sister, and the king of Rohan for Reiner’s whole life. 

Éomer looked almost lost as someone took the banner of Rohan from the king’s slain standard bearer and handed it to him. 

Wiping away his tears with a gloved hand, Reiner listened as Éomer recited a saying about battle, how they should not mourn overmuch. But from the way his voice shook, Reiner could tell that he too was crying. 

In the distance, another horn sounded, its tone unnatural and shrill. Farther south, what looked like giant towers marched towards them slowly. That made no sense, Reiner thought, blinking and squinting through the smoke and darkness. Towers could not march. 

Oliphaunts could, though. Éomer let out a humorless laugh, vaulting back onto his horse. “Reform the line,” he ordered his men. “All of you.”

His men repeated the order, drawing as many men to him as possible. Reiner fell into place beside him, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. It was strange thinking that this man, Reiner’s friend for so many years, was now his king. 

He did not have much time to think, though, as Éomer led the charge over the plain towards the oliphaunts. Reiner had never seen one of these creatures before; their size was even greater than the stories would have him believe. For the first time, Reiner began to seriously doubt Éomer’s decision. Horses had no place charging oliphants. They would be flattened into the ground, he thought, staring wide eyed as one of the giant beasts raised its trunk and trumpeted. 

Some of the horses near him turned back as they approached the oliphaunts, terrified of the massive creatures. Spotting the barbed chains strung between the animals’ tusks, Reiner found himself half wishing that Hild would do the same. 

Arrows began to fall around them again, apparently shot from the backs of the oliphaunts. Directly in front of him, Harding’s horse apparently caught one of the arrows, tumbling with a scream to roll on top of him. Unable to turn in time, Hild trampled over them, nearly falling as well. Reiner looked to his left to see Horn’s blood-red bay galloping riderless alongside him. It would be a miracle if any of them survived this, he thought, gritting his teeth as Hild swerved around another dead horse.

Without a spear or arrows, he could do little but duck low over his saddle and provide a distraction to the archers as Hild charged between the oliphaunts. She barely missed being stepped on by one of them, Reiner’s long green cloak snapping against its immense leg as they passed by. 

Somehow, they made it through the forest of oliphaunt legs out onto the open field behind them. Or so Reiner thought that it was an open field. As they came closer, he realized that they were actually running towards a solid line of Haradrim, their bronze armor glinting in the firelight. To ride against them alone would be suicidal. Swearing, he moved to turn Hild around. She was slow to respond, unwilling to go back towards the oliphaunts. 

Seeming to catch sight of the Haradrim, Hild slid to a stop and spun, nearly throwing him. “Easy, girl,” he said under his breath, making an attempt to calm her. It was useless. She was almost completely out of his control now. Snorting, she started back towards the rest of Éomer’s remaining riders. 

She had nearly reached them when abruptly she went down under him, flinging him from the saddle and knocking his sword from his hand. Desperately, he tried to seize the reins, but she had already regained her feet. He gasped as one of her hooves caught him in the chest when she scrambled up again, knocking him over onto his back. Her eyes rolling, she galloped away, the empty stirrups slapping at her sides.

“Hild!” he shouted weakly, trying to regain his breath. It was not like her to run away from him when he was down. Even in battle she stayed by his side, striking out with her hooves until he could get back into the saddle. 

This battle was different. Hearing the sound of the Haradrim approaching, Reiner seized his sword from the ground and clambered to his feet, sweeping his cloak behind him. There were a few Rohirrim here around him, at least. To his right Éothain stood, similarly unhorsed, while several men he did not know rode their direction. Their help would not be enough, he thought grimly, lifting his painted shield against the oncoming Haradrim. 

Almost immediately, he was surrounded. He moved as if by instinct, ducking a southron sword and stabbing its owner through the throat, kicking out the man’s legs and dodging out of the way of a mace. He was unable to avoid every attack, though. Soon he was bleeding from several small wounds to his forearms. Already sore from his fall, he tired rapidly. His shield felt heavy in his hands and his blocks grew slow and clumsy. 

A blow to his shield side sent him to his knees, gasping in pain. Struggling to pull himself back up, he turned to face his assailant, a tall man with a covered face and a thin sword. He caught a second blow on his shield, but his block was miscalculated and the man’s sword slipped down and struck him in the thigh.

Reiner screamed and staggered backwards, his leg bleeding profusely. He tripped over a dead southron, falling heavily onto his back. The man who had cut him strode towards him triumphantly, lifting his sword to stab Reiner through the heart. For a half second, Reiner lay there as if transfixed by the bright sword that was about to end his life.

Seized by defiance, he rolled out of the way and lurched to his feet, his shield forgotten on the ground. Taking his sword in both hands, he drove it into the southron’s side with such force that both of them fell to the ground, the southron screaming loudly. He rolled on top of Reiner and scrabbled at the sword, trying to pull it from his body with his bare hands. With the last of his strength, Reiner pushed the man off of him and wrenched his sword away.

Shaking, he fell to the ground, his face pressed against the trodden grass. Around him, the Haradrim continued to stream past, sometimes stepping on him and their fallen comrades. His fight was over now, though. Weak and bleeding, he was sure to be killed before he even stood up if he tried to fight again. For now, the best he could do was pretend to be among the dead and hope that his act was convincing.

As cautiously as he could, he pulled his cloak over his face, hoping that his movement would be overlooked. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to stay silent as southron men trampled over him, their boots sending blinding stabs of pain through him as they stepped on his wounds. One yelp and a southron could notice he was still alive and kill him. 

What scared him most were not the Haradrim or even the horses that sometimes galloped past, but the oliphaunts. On hearing their tremendous footsteps grow nearer, he could do little but pray that they would somehow avoid running his direction. Unable to bear not being able to see, he took a chance on peeking out from under his cloak, shifting the fabric slightly so he could look out with one eye. 

The oliphaunts had scattered. Several were downed, either floundering about on the ground or already dead. Horses and men ran nearly everywhere he looked, while the fires in Minas Tirith continued to rage. Closing his eyes again, he tried to detach himself from the fight, instead trying to come up with a plan.

He was not sure how long he lay there for. Eventually, the sounds of battle diminished and were replaced by the screams and groans of the dying. Even then he waited, trying to block those terrible noises from his mind until a grim quiet settled over the field. 

Riddled with pain from his wounds and stiff from lying in the same position for so long, he slowly lifted his head and pushed himself up on one elbow, grimacing as the cuts on his forearm grated against his armor. His cloak fell away from his face, allowing him to see. 

It appeared that the battle was indeed over. The oliphaunts had all been driven away or killed and the fires on the first and second levels of the city seemed to have diminished somewhat. Somehow, it seemed that the Rohirrim’s arrival had helped them win the fight. For the first time that day, he felt a glimmer of hope. If the attack on the city had been contained, maybe there was the possibility that Bertholdt could have survived after all.

If he hoped to see Bertholdt again, he needed to act. His wounds, having bled freely for hours now, needed immediate attention. Once that was done, he would somehow need to make his way closer to the city to find help.

His hands shaking, he unbuckled his helmet and dropped it at his side. Taking several deep breaths, he pulled his cloak off of himself and took his dagger and water skin from his belt. He allowed himself a drink before dumping some of the remaining water onto the gash in his thigh, which he judged to be the deepest of his wounds. Gasping in pain, he took a moment to steady himself. Washing out the wound caused it to bleed more freely again, deepening the dark red stain that had already spread across the trousers he wore under his armor. He swore, pressing his gloved hand against the cut in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He needed something to bandage it with, he thought, his mind going blank momentarily. There were bandages in his saddlebags, but those were with Hild, and Hild had left him. 

Fumbling with his dagger, he reached for his cloak again. It would be too difficult to cut through the entire cloak, with its multiple layers of fabric. The lining would be easy enough to remove, though. Although his shivering made it more difficult, he had soon cut several strips from the cloak’s lining and wrapped them around his bleeding leg, tying them awkwardly with clumsy fingers. 

He did not even bother trying to clean out his other wounds. There were so many of them, he thought, noticing another he had missed before on his left shoulder. By itself, each cut would have been manageable. It was the combination of all of them and the resulting loss of blood that scared him.

Having made an effort to take care of himself, he sank back to the ground, panting. He felt exhausted, despite having hardly moved for what he guessed was a stretch of several hours.

The next thing he needed to do was get up. Somehow that seemed like an insurmountable task. Taking several deep breaths, he struggled to his hands and knees, groaning in agony as he did so. Reaching for his sword, he pushed its point into the hard earth and tried to lean on it to help pull himself to his feet.

For a moment, it seemed that he had made it. But then he was overwhelmed by dizziness, his vision going black. Before he could take a single step, he had collapsed again, striking his head against the ground as he fell. 

It was hopeless, he realized, casting a desperate look around him for anything, anyone that could help him. Several yards away he spotted a familiar burgundy cloak that had belonged to Éothain. Crawling towards him slowly, he did not need to reach the man to realize that he was dead. His blue eyes stared blank and glassy up at the sky, his armor soaked with blood from a spear thrust through his side. 

Irrationally horrified, Reiner dragged himself away from the dead man, the effort so much that he eventually let himself fall back to the ground. Even lifting his head made his heart race and caused him so much dizziness that he retched when he tried. There was nothing he could do anymore. Nothing he could do but wait.

Shivering violently, he pulled his cloak around himself, every gust of wind sending a chill though him. He covered his face, shielding himself from the cold. It hardly mattered that no one would see him now. Nobody would find him here. He was completely alone. All the men he had once fought with were dead or far away, perhaps meeting with the Steward of Gondor after their costly victory. 

He was dying, he realized. He had seen this all before. The shaking with cold, the elevated heartbeat, the pale skin and dizziness, the weakness that slowly took over. The amount of blood he had lost was simply too great. Maybe if he had been found earlier, he could have survived. It was too late now, though.

This was his fault. He should have asked Éomer to press the king to ride towards Gondor faster than he did. They had considered it, but ultimately waited. If they had arrived sooner, they might have arrived before the siege began. If he had stayed calm and kept Hild from panicking, he might never have been thrown by her and she might never have run away. If he had fought better on the ground, he might never have suffered all these wounds. He had never been a good swordsman on the ground. As soon as Hild had thrown him, his fate was sealed. 

_This is not how a hero should die_ , he thought angrily, his hand balling into a fist. If he were going to die, he should have died bravely, fighting the Nazgûl or the oliphaunts, even some southron captain. There was little honor in dying alone on the edge of the battlefield, bleeding slowly from many small wounds. No songs would be written about Reiner son of Guthred, whose death went unnoticed. When his body was finally found, he would undoubtedly already be torn apart by the crows that now circled overhead. What had happened to him would be a mystery to any who cared to wonder.

All he could hope for was that the stories had some grain of truth to them and that when one died, he would be reunited with those he had loved in life. If Bertholdt were truly dead, maybe he would see him soon, handsome and smiling, dressed as he had been that day when they had first met in the Meduseld, when Reiner could have mistaken him for a prince of Númenor. Maybe then they could finally be without fear, in that unknown eternity that he could only hope to see. 

Or maybe Bertholdt was still alive. Would he ask the riders where Reiner was when they came to the city? What would he feel when he was told that Reiner was dead? Or perhaps Bertholdt was himself wounded, lying alone in some forgotten alleyway where no one could ever find him. 

_I will see you soon,_  he had promised Bertholdt in that letter he sent what seemed like an eternity ago. It was a lie, and it was his fault. At least in life, he would never see Bertholdt again.

Closing his eyes one last time, Reiner waited to die.


	8. His Hands and His Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle of Pelennor fields, Bertholdt seeks out Reiner. When the riders of Rohan tell him Reiner did not make it into the City, Bertholdt begins a desperate search. If Reiner is somehow alive, Bertholdt hopes that they can get him to the healers in time. Otherwise, Bertholdt will bring Reiner's body back for a proper funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mûmakil-- Elvish word for Oliphaunt.

By afternoon the battle was over. Bertholdt trudged back towards the city, feeling weary beyond reckoning. His armor was flecked with both black blood of Orcs and the bright red blood of Men. His shield had been splintered, but miraculously his spear had remained intact. Bertholdt had been up well over twenty-four hours, and his body craved little more than his own bed. Before sleep, though, Bertholdt had to find Reiner.

As the battle had progressed, a worry had grown in the back of Bertholdt’s mind, but now it was all-encompassing. Bertholdt knew that Reiner was a highly accomplished fighter, especially on horseback. The arrival of the _mûmakil_ , however, had seriously scared Bertholdt. No matter how skilled a fighter and a horseman Reiner was, a _mûmak_ could easily crush him.

“Captain Bertholdt!” a voice called from before him. Bertholdt’s head snapped up from his feet to see one of the men of his Company, his arm crudely bandaged. “What orders do you have?”

It took Bertholdt some moments to put his thoughts together. “Summon the ones who remain to the main courtyard of Minas Tirith,” he said finally. “I will give further instructions when everyone has gathered. I… need to find one of my friends. He is one of the Rohirrim.”

Bertholdt caught the odd look that passed quickly over his subordinate’s face. “As you command,” he said, bowing slightly before turning back towards the City.

Leaning on the shaft of his spear, Bertholdt ambled into the City. Already he could see where the riders of Rohan were gathering around their new king, Éomer. Some were mounted, though many were unhorsed. After King Éomer gave commands, Bertholdt entered the throng. His heart felt as though it was beating a thousand beats a minute as he approached a few of the Rohirrim.

“Pardon me, but would you know where Reiner son of Guthred is?” Bertholdt asked, terrified to hear their answer.

The men stood thoughtful for a moment, clearly unwilling to say anything. “I did not see him ride into the City,” one finally said, glancing down at his boots. “Did you?” he asked, looking towards his companions.

“I last saw Reiner after we had broken through the line of Oliphaunts,” another recalled. “I do not recall seeing him come into the city, either.”

Their answers left Bertholdt feeling strangely empty. “Broken through the line of Oliphaunts?” Bertholdt asked.

“Yes. He and his grey mare charged through them and made it onto the other side, where the foot soldiers were. Closer to the river than to the city walls,” the one who had mentioned the Oliphaunts explained.

Bertholdt gripped his spear, hoping that it would keep him from shaking too badly. He could not give up hope yet, that Reiner had come into the City and these three riders had not seen him. “Th-thank you,” Bertholdt choked out, moving deeper into the crowd of riders.

Everyone he asked, he got a similar response. They had not seen Reiner come into the City, neither on foot, or horsed, or carried to the Houses of Healing. Some echoed the men who had seen Reiner break past the _mûmakil_ , some had seen him when King Éomer had rallied his riders, but the overarching sentiment was the same: Reiner had not made it off the field.

Bertholdt felt nauseated as he jogged back to where his men had gathered. This was something out of a nightmare. By the aghast expressions that his Company wore, Bertholdt figured that he must look ashen. He could hardly keep his voice from shaking as he addressed them.

“W-We must honor those of our Company who f-fell in this battle,” Bertholdt began, his heart racing in his chest. Of the twenty he had set out with, only ten stood before him. “W-We have lost half the C-Company.”

“Captain, two of our members— Adrahil and Beleg—lie badly wounded in the Houses. I and Eradan carried them to the sixth level before returning to the courtyard,” one explained, bowing his head out of politeness.

Bertholdt let out a deep breath. “Th-that leaves us still with eight men whose bodies should be found and treated with h-honor. They c-cannot be food for crows.” _I cannot leave Reiner’s body to be food for crows, either_ , Bertholdt reminded himself, feeling sick at the thought. “Y-You are no longer bound by my o-orders. We have all b-been dismissed,” Bertholdt reminded his Company. “B-but I beg of you, would a f-few of you be willing to accompany m-me out to the field? I-I am looking… I am looking for— for—“ Bertholdt could hardly get words out, his throat was constricting with his emotion. “I am looking for the man I l-love, who lies upon the Pelennor w-wounded or… dead.” Bertholdt’s eyes clouded over with tears.

“Captain Bertholdt,” the one named Eradan spoke, stepping forward slightly. “I will help you look for Reiner.”

Bertholdt let out a small gasp at the mention of Reiner’s name. “You will?” Bertholdt asked, almost unable to believe his ears.

“I will, as well.” Bertholdt’s most senior member, named Beren, stepped forward so he was abreast with Eradan.

One more, Hallas, who was strong as an ox, came forward. Bertholdt decided that those three comrades would do, and dismissed the others to search for the fallen members of their Company. Bertholdt’s stomach twisted into knots as he stepped through the city gates and onto the Pelennor. Reiner was somewhere out there, maybe closer to the river from some of the riders’ reports, but the task felt futile from the start. Bertholdt could not rest until he found Reiner, though.

Bertholdt prayed that Reiner’s brilliant green cloak with its golden knotwork embroidery had not been separated from him. It was one of the most distinguishing features of Reiner’s person, and would make Reiner stand out at a distance. Deciding that four sets of eyes were better than only one, Bertholdt quickly described the cloak to his men. Bertholdt quickly found out that his affection towards Reiner had not been entirely subtle; they knew of the cloak within moments of Bertholdt launching into his description. If Bertholdt was not beside himself with fear and worry, he would have been embarrassed.

They searched in silence. Bertholdt made a trajectory towards the River, but knew too well that Reiner could be anywhere on this expansive field. Gripped with feelings of helplessness, Bertholdt trembled as he walked. No matter where he looked, none of the fallen riders had brilliant green cloaks.

He stepped around the bodies of fallen men and horses, but his weariness and nerves were starting to take a toll. Not watching his feet, Bertholdt tripped over the hind legs of a dead horse, stumbled forward, and barely caught himself. Bringing his eyes up from his boots, the bottom of Bertholdt’s stomach dropped out from under him. He would recognize that grey horse anywhere. The pink nose and the white markings upon the horse’s face made her identity unmistakable.

“Hild,” Bertholdt breathed out, horrified. Reiner’s horse lay dead before him, one foreleg a mess of broken bone, muscle, and sinew. Bertholdt could hardly keep himself from retching as he gazed upon Hild’s body; her sweet brown eyes now stared up at the sky and had turned glassy in death. A large gash went through her throat and stained the grass around her deep red. It was plain to Bertholdt that Hild had snapped her leg while running over the Pelennor, and another rider had chosen to ease her suffering.

“Captain?” Beren asked uncertainly, glancing towards Hild.

“Th-this was Reiner’s horse.” Bertholdt’s throat closed up with tears. Bertholdt sank to his knees before Hild, a few rebel tears running down his cheeks. “Oh Hild, I am so sorry,” Bertholdt murmured, reaching out to stroke the mare’s forehead. Unwillingly, Bertholdt drew his dagger from his sword belt and cut away the mare’s forelock. If by some miracle, Reiner was still alive, he would want a memory of his horse.

Stashing the forelock in a small satchel, Bertholdt stood again, his legs shaky and weak. “D-Do any of you see Reiner’s cloak nearby?”

But after Bertholdt conducted a thorough search of the area immediate to Hild’s body, he accepted that Reiner had been unhorsed earlier in the battle, or had been able to survive the fall without injury. Bertholdt had even inspected the bodies of the riders nearest to Hild, but each time a strange face gazed back at him.

Wordlessly Bertholdt made his way towards the River, around the bodies of the fallen _mûmakil_. The shadows were beginning to lengthen as the sun began to set behind Mount Mindolluin. Knowing that they could not continue the search for Reiner in the dark, Bertholdt began to feel frantic.

As Osgiliath and the Anduin drew closer, Bertholdt was beginning to fear he would never find Reiner’s body at all. Already he had seen the unidentifiable remains of those who had been trampled by the _mûmakil_. From other riders’ talk, it sounded as though Reiner had been close to the _mûmakil_ … then again, it seemed as though the Pelennor had been trampled all over by the _mûmakil_ ’s massive feet. So far, though, Bertholdt had not seen any trampled bodies bearing Felaróf, galloping over a green cloak. That gave Bertholdt a small glimmer of hope. He did not want to think of finding Reiner’s broken and mutilated body.

The sky was starting to turn blood red with the sunset. Knowing that he had little time, Bertholdt felt tears begin to leak from his eyes. If he returned to the city then Reiner was lost, and he could hardly bear having nothing of Reiner’s. Even if he found only Reiner’s beautiful cloak lying upon the ground, Bertholdt would treasure that for the rest of his days— though living out the full life of a Dúnadan seemed unbearable without Reiner.

“Captain Bertholdt?” Beren’s voice snapped him back to attention. “We are nearing the edge of the battlefield now. The sun is setting. Perhaps… it would be best, if we began walking back towards the City again.”

Bertholdt stiffened involuntarily. “Y-you would suggest that I give up my search?” he asked, unable to look Beren in the eye. “I cannot return until I have found Reiner. Y-you are not bound by the Law of the City to follow me.”

For a minute his men were silent. “We will help you keep looking, Captain,” Eradan affirmed from behind him. “This is an awful task, and not one that anyone should face alone.”

Bertholdt was too grateful to speak. They continued their search, though Bertholdt moved parallel to the Great River now. The evening was beginning to grow very dark indeed. Bertholdt was about to make plans for crafting a crude torch when he noticed, lying a little farther afield, a brilliant green cloak with exquisite knotwork. Felaróf was emblazoned upon it.

“Reiner!” Bertholdt gasped, breaking out into a sprint. Finally reaching the cloak, Bertholdt sank to his knees in the bloody grass, feeling sick with fear, and with an apprehensive hand moved to uncover Reiner’s face, afraid of what he would see.

Bertholdt let out another gasp of astonishment. Reiner’s eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell faintly, and he shivered slightly as if very cold, and while his face was very pale, it still bore a faint pink that no corpse ever would. Bertholdt broke into shuddering sobs. Reiner was alive.

Reiner bore many small wounds, especially upon his arms, and one larger wound in his thigh, which Reiner had bandaged. It was clear to Bertholdt that he had been slowly bleeding out for several hours. His life hung on by a thread. All of Bertholdt’s hope would be in vain, though, if he could not wake Reiner.

As Bertholdt grabbed Reiner’s hands and gave them a small squeeze, Reiner’s beautiful hazel eyes snapped open. “Reiner,” Bertholdt murmured. “It’s me. It’s Bertholdt.” Both unbelievably relieved and absolutely terrified, Bertholdt pressed his lips to Reiner’s gently. He did not care if his men saw.

“B-Bertl…” Reiner murmured, his voice thin and frail. “A-are you alive?”

“Yes, Reiner, I’m alive,” Bertholdt said through his tears. “I didn’t think I would ever find you again!” Noticing that Reiner was still shivering horribly, likely from shock, Bertholdt unfastened his brooch and threw his black and silver cloak over Reiner in the hopes that it would keep him warm. Unable to help himself, Bertholdt leaned down and kissed Reiner again. “I love you. You need to stay awake for me.”

Reiner groaned softly, shutting his eyes. “Bertl, I’m… not sure I can.”

Panic was beginning to rise in Bertholdt’s chest. “You need to,” he stated firmly. “Please, look at me? Your hazel eyes are beautiful.”

Slowly, Reiner opened his eyes again. “Bertl, I can’t walk. I can’t even lift my head.”

“I know. You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Bertholdt replied, taking Reiner’s hands and giving them a firm squeeze. Too much blood, Bertholdt thought to himself. If they did not get Reiner to the Houses of Healing soon, it would be too late. Though Bertholdt was unsure if even they could help him. The healers could not replace his lost blood.

But the healers could certainly stitch the wounds closed so they would not bleed any more. Turning to his men, who had remained silent, Bertholdt commanded, “we will use our spears and his cloak to bear him into the city.”

Wordlessly they set to the task of fashioning a stretcher. Bertholdt knew from the drawn looks on their faces that they were not expecting Reiner to survive. Bertholdt just needed to keep Reiner fighting. If Reiner could not find that in him, he would not live much longer.

Bertholdt pushed Reiner’s blond hair away from his face, affectionately playing with Reiner’s braid. “I’m just so glad I found you,” Bertholdt murmured, giving Reiner another kiss. “I’m going to keep talking to you. I know you’re weak. Keep your eyes open.” Gently, Bertholdt unclasped Reiner’s gold horse head brooch and stashed it in his satchel. Taking the utmost to not upset Reiner’s battered body, Bertholdt pulled the cloak out from under Reiner and passed it wordlessly to Beren.

Reiner let out a groan despite Bertholdt’s best efforts. “I-It hurts, Bertl,” Reiner whined.

Bertholdt was relieved to hear Reiner speak. “I know, love. Your cuts, they’re still bleeding. I’ll try to staunch and bandage them. Stay with me.” Bertholdt faltered for a moment, looking back towards his men. “I-I have no more bandages. You?”

Eradan pulled out a small roll of bandages from his own pouch. “It is not much, Captain.”

Beren looked away, seeming unable to make eye contact. “I have used all that I had.” Hallas shook his head when Bertholdt looked at him.

Still, the small offering could make a difference. Bertholdt accepted the bandages gratefully and began to triage the wounds. There were just so many, and it made Bertholdt’s heart ache. Reiner had already bandaged the larger gash in his thigh. It seemed to have staunched the wound enough. The smaller wounds still oozed blood, but a cut in Reiner’s shoulder bled the worst. It seemed that any movement made the wound weep afresh.

Pulling out his own dagger, he cut a length of bandage before folding it and pressing it firmly to Reiner’s wound. Reiner grit his teeth and whined in pain. “I know it hurts. Just stay awake for me, Reiner? I’ll get you to the healers soon.” Seeing Reiner’s pale face, Bertholdt knew he did not have much time. Quickly he used up the bandages in his attempts to staunch Reiner’s wounds on his forearms. His armor made it nigh impossible to stanch the wounds effectively, and would be even harder to bandage.

“Reiner, I think I have got the bleeding under control,” Bertholdt said, trying to project confidence.

Reiner gave him a weak smile. “That’s probably good.”

“But, I don’t have any more bandages, so it will not stay staunched for long,” Bertholdt worried. Turning around, he looked at his men’s progress. Beren gave Bertholdt a firm nod. They were ready to move Reiner at Bertholdt’s command.

“I… cut some of the lining of my cloak,” Reiner admitted, his voice very weak. “Sorry.” Bertholdt grabbed his dagger and started cutting away at the lining of his own cloak, making strips that he quickly wrapped around Reiner’s wounds. Reiner sighed, his hazel eyes meeting Bertholdt’s. “I did not mean… for you to cut your own cloak, Bertl.”

“No, Reiner, you are smart to think of that,” Bertholdt said quickly, panic starting to rise in his chest again. “And look, now we match. Here, men from my company and I, we’re going to move you very gently onto the stretcher, and then I’m going to take you to the healers. You’ll be okay.”

Bertholdt doubted those words even as they came out of his mouth. Reiner’s strength was waning. Bertholdt, along with his men, carefully eased Reiner onto the stretcher made from his own cloak. Reiner let out a cry of pain as they moved him, which nearly broke Bertholdt’s heart. “There, Reiner, that’s the worst part. Beren and Hallas, do you think you can bear his weight? Then on the count of three…”

Reiner yelped as they picked up the stretcher and began the trudge back to the city. The sun had nearly completely set, and the Pelennor was getting darker by the minute. Bertholdt continued talking to Reiner while holding Reiner’s hand tightly, telling him about things that had happened in their time apart, silly things like spilling ink over an important letter, or how the Blazing Beacon had run out of his favored wine. Anything that kept Reiner awake, with his eyes focused on Bertholdt.

“I… love you, Bertholdt,” Reiner murmured weakly, smiling faintly as he gazed upon Bertholdt’s face.

“I love you too, Reiner.”

Finally, they reached the gates of Minas Tirith. Small fires still burned in the first and second levels, but at least they provided light, Bertholdt thought grimly. “Reiner, we’re not hurting you, are we?” Bertholdt asked, mainly to get a response from Reiner.

To Bertholdt’s horror, Reiner opened his mouth to speak, but then settled for a nod. _He is too weak to talk_ , Bertholdt realized, his blood running cold. Trying to suppress his own panic, Bertholdt begged, “Reiner, when I squeeze your hand, squeeze mine back. That way I know you’re still awake. Please.” As a test, Bertholdt squeezed Reiner’s hand. Bertholdt received a weak squeeze back.

“You’ve got to keep fighting, Reiner. You’re strong. I know it. Please stay awake,” Bertholdt begged. “I’m not going to allow you to die.”

The walk up to the sixth level seemed to take an eternity. Bertholdt knew that Reiner was slipping away, and he was powerless to stop it. Every time Bertholdt saw Reiner close his eyes, he panicked and squeezed Reiner’s hand, his heartbeat only slowing when Reiner squeezed back. Bertholdt could not resist the hope, though, that if Reiner only stayed awake until they got to the Houses, that Reiner would survive.

Finally, the Houses of Healing were in sight. Bertholdt’s companions were huffing from the exertion of carrying Reiner so far. His heart alight with new hope, Bertholdt exclaimed, “Reiner, we’ve made it! The healers here are going to make you better.”

Earlier, Reiner had opened his eyes when Bertholdt spoke. The hope in Bertholdt’s heart began to die when Reiner did not even acknowledge Bertholdt by opening his eyes. Desperate, Bertholdt squeezed Reiner’s hand.

He did not receive a squeeze back.

As the healers took charge, Bertholdt was pushed away from Reiner, getting little more than a glimpse of Reiner’s face before the man he loved was taken away from him. Tears springing to his eyes, his hands still longing for the gentle squeeze they had not received, Bertholdt stepped out of the Houses and sank down on a bench, prepared to wait for whatever eventuality. Either the healers would fetch him and bring him to Reiner’s bedside… or Bertholdt would watch as a body, wrapped in a green cloak with golden thread, was removed from the Houses.


	9. The Houses of Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by horridfalafel.
> 
> Bertholdt and his men have found Reiner badly wounded on the Field of the Pelennor after the Siege of Gondor. They managed to bring him to the Houses of Healing, but were they too late? Although he’s not slept in days, Bertholdt is determined to wait until he gets news.

Bertholdt had sat on the marble bench outside the Houses of Healing for so long that he felt practically like he was becoming part of the stone. His eyelids were heavy and despite his anxiety several times he found himself blinking awake, unsure of how much time had passed.

Even when he drifted unwillingly into sleep, the events of the past two days played out repeatedly in his mind. The madness that had taken Lord Denethor, the hopelessness in Faramir’s eyes, his city burning, the eerily quiet battlefield full of corpses where somewhere he knew he had to find Reiner. He thought of how relieved and terrified he had been when he finally had found him, bleeding and on the brink of death far from the city walls. Most of all he thought of the harrowing journey back to Minas Tirith, as the last of Reiner’s strength had faded with the light.

When last he saw Reiner, he was not sure that even the Houses of Healing, though renowned for their skill, would be able to help him. The walk back to the city and up to the sixth level had been long, and Reiner’s condition had continued to deteriorate throughout the journey despite Bertholdt’s best efforts. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the faint touch of Reiner squeezing his hand to let him know that he was still awake. Worse was the memory of the last time he had squeezed Reiner’s hand, when Reiner had failed to answer him. He could not help but fear that he had been with Reiner for his final moments.

He had no idea what time of morning it was, other than that it was still dark. One of his men had been kind enough to bring him bread, water, and, in a gesture that showed how well he knew his captain, a bottle of wine. Although he could almost hear Reiner warning him not to, Bertholdt had drank several glasses over the course of the night in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Since Prince Imrahil had declared that he was still to act as Captain of the Tower Guard for the time being, he would need to go on duty the next morning. Part of him knew that he should sleep to prepare for that. It would be strange to go back to and no longer serve Lord Denethor. At least he could expect Imrahil to be more reasonable than Denethor had been in the end. Worried as he was about Reiner, though, if he did not receive news before he went on duty, he was not sure how well he could perform his job.

Shakily, he poured himself another glass of wine. Feeling sick with sadness and fear, as he drank he found himself dwelling on the last words that Reiner had ever said to him. _“I… love you, Bertholdt.”_  

There was something about those words that was strangely comforting to Bertholdt, even though they scared him. If they truly were the last words that Reiner ever spoke, at least he could be with the person he loved when he said them. Bertholdt had found him and done his best to bring him home.

His stomach still knotted with anxiety, he set his glass on the bench beside him and leaned back against the bench.  Unwillingly, he closed his eyes, his body forcing him to try sleep against his own desires.

He was uncertain how long he dozed for before he was abruptly awakened by the sound of footsteps. Blinking awake, he saw a tall man standing before him.

“Are you Bertholdt son of Anardil, Captain of the Tower Guard?” the man asked. His face bore the look of a Dúnadan, lean and dark haired with grey eyes, but he was not known to Bertholdt. Something about him seemed strangely familiar, though.

“Ye-“ Bertholdt coughed softly, clearing his throat. “Yes. Acting Captain,” he added instinctively.

The man smiled at his correction. “I believe Prince Imrahil would have you be full Captain, but the ultimate decision will rest with Lord Faramir. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn.  Bertholdt, I bring you news of your friend, Reiner son of Guthred.”

Instantly, Bertholdt became more alert. The name Aragorn was familiar to him. Rumor in the city was that this man had a rightful claim to the throne, though Bertholdt was not sure if he could believe that. By the expression he wore, he did not seem about to give him bad news. But he could not be sure. “My Lord - he is alive?”

To his great relief, Aragorn nodded. “He is alive. Very weak, but he is stable now. Although he was gravely wounded, his spirit is strong. I spoke with him after he awakened. He has asked to see you.”

The news was better than Bertholdt could have hoped for. Getting to his feet stiffly, he picked up the satchel of Reiner’s belongings that he had brought with him in the hopes of returning them to Reiner. “I must see him,” Bertholdt said firmly. “Thank you.”

“Follow me.” The man turned and beckoned Bertholdt to follow him.

Leaving his wine bottle and glass sitting on the bench, Bertholdt made his way to the doors of the Houses of Healing after Aragorn. His heart began to pound nervously as Aragorn led him through the crowded halls of the Houses, still full of those injured in battle. Soon they came to a smaller room with several beds, all of them occupied. Bertholdt’s eyes scanned their occupants until he found who he was looking for.

“Reiner,” he gasped, rushing to his bedside and kneeling beside him.

The blond man lay propped up on several white pillows, bandages covering the hands that rested on top of his blankets. Still deathly pale, he nevertheless smiled at Bertholdt’s arrival. Unable to resist, Bertholdt leaned down and kissed him gently on the lips, taking Reiner’s hand in his own. He lingered there, reaching up to stroke Reiner’s hair and feeling as if he never wanted to be parted from him again.

Bertholdt wished that moment could have lasted forever, but eventually he needed to pull away. He looked down at Reiner lovingly, tenderly caressing his stubble-covered cheek. “I was so worried for you,” he said breathlessly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. Behind him, he caught a glimpse of movement as Aragorn left the room. At the moment, Bertholdt was hardly concerned with what the man had seen.

“I did not mean to worry you,” Reiner said quietly, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He frowned slightly. “You were drinking.”

“I… I am sorry,” Bertholdt apologized. He blushed, taken aback that Reiner would have noticed that. “I just – one of my men brought me some wine. While I was waiting for news about you. I- it was unbearable.”

Reiner gave him a small nod. “I understand. I owe you my life. Lord Aragorn says that had you brought me in any later, I may have been beyond help, even by him.”

“Lord Aragorn himself treated you?” Bertholdt asked in amazement.

“Yes,” Reiner confirmed. He looked down at his bandaged arms. “I am fortunate that he was there. He is a highly gifted healer. You… may have heard the rumors.” He broke off thoughtfully. “Lord Aragorn led our army in the Battle of Helm’s Deep perhaps more than even Théoden King. He is a good man.”

Biting his lip, Bertholdt nodded. “I have heard the rumors,” he said. “I am glad that he was able to help you.”

“It is all thanks to you, though,” Reiner reminded him. He smiled as his golden eyes met Bertholdt’s, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “My Númenόrean prince.”

Tears springing to his eyes, Bertholdt lowered his head to kiss him again, this time more deeply. “I may not be a prince,” he said, “but for you I would try to be anything.”

“Then be a good captain,” Reiner compromised. “Though you will always be my prince.”

“I will try. Prince Imrahil has reinstated me as acting Captain of the Tower Guard for the foreseeable future. Working under him will be… I cannot say. Different.”

“I understand,” Reiner said, his expression turning to one of sadness. “While Éomer lives, my king is slain, along with many of my comrades and friends. I saw – I saw several of them die. It hurts.”

He paused, finally noticing the satchel of belongings that Bertholdt held. “But you found Hild? Is she not hurt? I was thrown from her and after that cannot say. Did she come to the gate after the battle?”

His hopefulness made Bertholdt feel heartsick. He had dreaded this moment, wishing that Reiner would not think to ask. “Reiner…”

Reiner’s optimism faltered. “Where is she?” he asked, his voice quavering slightly.

Bertholdt felt that this was hardly something he should be telling Reiner now, with him still mourning his friends and just beginning his recovery. Unwillingly, he opened the satchel he had brought for Reiner and opened it, drawing out a slightly messy plait of dark grey horsehair. “She… she was killed,” Bertholdt said reluctantly. Wordlessly, he handed the plait to Reiner.

“No,” Reiner whispered, his fingers curling around the braided mane. “She was alive, I saw her. She ran away!”

“I am so sorry,” Bertholdt said sadly. “I retrieved your tack and belongings.”

Stricken, Reiner clutched the plait to his chest, his eyes full of tears. “I hoped she made it back,” he said, beginning to cry helplessly. “They had no reason to kill her. I had already fallen off.”

Bertholdt was unsure of what to say. Remembering the horrific sight of Hild’s broken body on the battlefield, he understood that the riders had definitely had a reason to kill her then. Reiner did not need to hear of her gruesomely broken leg, though. While he would not lie to him, he did not need to tell him the details of her death. He held Reiner’s hand tightly as the man wept, shaking with emotion. “I know,” he said eventually.

Soon he seemed to grow exhausted from crying, Wiping Reiner’s tears away from his eyes with a gentle hand, Bertholdt kissed the top of his head. The stress of learning of Hild’s death could not have been healthy for him in this state, Bertholdt thought. It would have been wrong to lie to him, though, and he would have found out sooner or later anyway. Perhaps it was better to get it over with quickly, when the emotional scars of the battle were still fresh.

“I… I am sorry,” Reiner said huskily, sniffling. He looked exhausted and empty. “I had her since she was a tiny filly. I cannot believe she is gone.” Helpless tears filled his eyes again. “I feel like I failed her.”

Bertholdt shook his head. “You did not fail her. This battle took many who were dear to us. I lost nearly half the men in my company. It is hard not to blame myself. I understand how you feel. I know that you did all you could to keep her safe.”

Looking down at the horsehair plait, Reiner sighed softly. He was silent for some time, the talking and emotion seeming to have drained much of his strength. Bertholdt rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb, watching his pale face.

After some time, Reiner spoke again. “Those men you had with you- who were they? I did not know them.”

“When I found you? They were from my company. I asked if they would help search for you after you did not return from battle. I do not wish to think about what would have happened had they not come with me. I could never thank them enough,” Bertholdt told him sincerely.

He yawned, looking towards the darkened windows of the room. He was not sure what time it was, but it had to be early morning by now. “You should rest, Reiner.”

“You should, too,” Reiner told him, closing his eyes wearily. “No more drinking tonight.”

“Now that I know you are safe, I think I can sleep,” Bertholdt said. “I promise that I will see you tomorrow as soon as I am off duty.” One last time he kissed Reiner on the lips, not caring who saw him do it.

“I love you,” Reiner said softly, staring up into Bertholdt’s eyes. “Thank you again for not giving up on me.”

“I would never give up on you,” Bertholdt promised, giving Reiner’s hand a parting squeeze. “I love you, Reiner. Sleep well.”

With that, he stood up and reluctantly left the room. Remembering Reiner’s instructions to be a good captain, he briefly inquired as to the condition of his own injured men before he left. To his relief, he found that they were both recovering, though sleeping at the time that he visited. Finally finished with what he felt he needed to do, he tiredly walked back to his quarters, where an empty, lonely bed awaited him.


	10. Last Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt tells Reiner of the plan to engage Sauron's forces at the Black Gate. Knowing that this is a suicide mission, Reiner savors what little time he has left with Bertholdt.

Reiner was grateful that his window looked down onto the courtyard before the Houses of Healing. That way, he could watch for Bertholdt, who, for the past few days since the battle, had made a point of visiting him after he got off duty. Reiner appreciated Bertholdt’s presence beyond words. Changing the dressings on his wounds was excruciating at times, but Bertholdt was careful and gentle, taking his time with re-bandaging Reiner’s numerous cuts. Sometimes Bertholdt would stay with Reiner late into the night, holding his hand while Reiner slept. 

Reiner sat up a little taller in bed, recognizing a tall, dark-haired man stride through the courtyard. His heart began to hammer in his chest in anticipation of kissing Bertholdt’s lips. Within a minute, Bertholdt was in the doorway. 

Immediately Reiner could tell that something was a bit off about Bertholdt. His smile seemed tense, and the way he held his body seemed tense too. With little more ado, Bertholdt walked to Reiner’s bedside and met his lips in a gentle kiss. 

“You are off duty earlier than usual,” Reiner commented once Bertholdt had pulled away. 

“My duties only lasted through this morning,” Bertholdt explained. His voice seemed almost terse. 

Maybe his duty was just stressful, Reiner thought, allowing Bertholdt to take his arm. Bertholdt then began the arduous process of unwrapping the bandages that covered his arms. Despite Bertholdt’s caution, Reiner could not help but wince in pain a few times, crying out involuntarily when Bertholdt reached the cut on his shoulder. “O-Ouch, Bertholdt, that hurt,” Reiner groaned.

Bertholdt grimaced. “I am sorry, Reiner.” Silently he resumed his work of gently dabbing on ointment. Reiner grit his teeth. Despite Bertholdt’s caution, this was always painful. 

Reiner was beginning to feel slightly bothered by Bertholdt’s quiet manner. It was not like the man. Cautiously, Reiner asked, “where were you stationed today?” 

“The throne room,” Bertholdt answered, carefully wrapping Reiner’s arm in fresh bandages. 

Reiner sighed softly. For a few minutes his mind grew blank; there was little he could think about but the pain of his healing wounds as Bertholdt began to work on his other arm. Other than a few quiet apologies when he hurt Reiner, Bertholdt remained quiet, focused entirely on his work. 

Once Bertholdt had changed the dressings on the wounds, he drew up a chair to sit next to Reiner’s bedside. Reiner grabbed Bertholdt’s hand and gave it a small squeeze. Bertholdt gave Reiner’s hand a squeeze in return, a small smile on his lips. 

“I have not said it yet today, but I love you, Bertl,” Reiner murmured, leaning over to rest against Bertholdt. It seemed as though his lover was taut as a bowstring; every muscle in his body was tight. 

“I love you too, Reiner.” Bertholdt let out a sigh.

Several minutes passed in uneasy silence. Reiner knew now that something was wrong and that Bertholdt did not want to bring it up. Something had happened during his morning duty, and he did not want to share with Reiner. Feeling strangely hurt that Bertholdt would hide something from him, Reiner spoke. “What happened while you were on duty today, Bertl? You have been unusually quiet. Your face has been tense, too.” 

Bertholdt looked away from Reiner, taking several deep breaths. When he spoke, his voice wavered as though he was on the brink of tears. “Reiner… in three days, the Lords Aragorn and Éomer will march on the Black Gate. Their force includes everyone that can be spared. Men of the Fifth Company will remain to uphold the duties of the Tower Guard. I… I am expected to lead the other four companies into battle.” 

Tears began to leak out of Bertholdt’s eyes. He brushed them away with a hand. “I-I am so sorry, Reiner. They are taking me away from you. I-I just found you and in a few short days I will be parted from you again.” Even though Bertholdt seemed in control of his tears, every so often he reached up to wipe his eyes. 

Reiner could hardly comprehend what he was hearing. He felt chilled, even under his blankets. “B-Bertl… why? Why are they taking you to fight there?” 

Bertholdt glanced around the room cautiously. Leaning in close, Bertholdt kept his voice at a whisper. “There are two halflings, carrying the One Ring into Mordor. Mithrandir and Lord Aragorn believe that they can create a diversion and draw Sauron’s armies to the Gate. I was at the council.” 

Reiner looked up at Bertholdt, locking eyes with him. He could see the fear and hopelessness in Bertholdt’s green eyes. Reiner was sure that Bertholdt could see the horror in his own hazel eyes. “Bertl, that is s-suicide.” Unable to help himself, Reiner began to weep. 

Upon hearing Bertholdt’s explanation, he realized that he had almost expected this. While Sauron’s Ring still existed, his armies would always be a threat. The battle he had barely survived was only to save Gondor. The fate of the world rested on this one battle, and the armies of Rohan and Gondor had been severely weakened. Reiner could not help but cry. It seemed impossible that Bertholdt would return. 

Reiner could feel Bertholdt carefully embrace him. Reiner relaxed into his lover’s arms. “I promise you, Reiner, I will come back. I will not let you down,” Bertholdt vowed, burying his face in Reiner’s hair. 

“You need to,” Reiner asserted through his tears. “I-I need you to change my bandages.” 

At that, Reiner felt Bertholdt smile. “And I need to take care of you.” 

“Just hold me,” Reiner whispered. Bertholdt scooted off the chair and next to Reiner on the bed. Reiner savored being held in such loving arms, the feeling of Bertholdt’s chest rising and falling as he breathed; the feeling of Bertholdt’s breath ruffling through his hair; the warmth of Bertholdt’s body; the touch of Bertholdt’s hands in his. He would not get much more time with his prince of Númenor.

* * *

There was a loud clamor in the streets of Minas Tirith, so much that it made its way to the sixth level and through Reiner’s window. Today the host of Rohan and Gondor would leave Minas Tirith and march on the Black Gate. Reiner sank back into his pillows, waiting for Bertholdt to visit him. There was a nagging worry in Reiner’s mind that Bertholdt would be too busy with final preparations to say goodbye, even though Reiner knew better than that. Bertholdt would give him a parting kiss before going on his hopeless mission.

Reiner had unwillingly fallen into a doze when he heard footsteps approaching. Whoever it was, they were wearing plate armor as was customary of a soldier of Gondor. Opening his eyes, Reiner blinked to see Bertholdt next to his bedside, and in his arms was a parcel wrapped in brown cloth and tied with string. 

Bertholdt still looked princely, with his armor bearing the image of the white tree; a shirt of chain mail under his armor. Reiner was surprised to see a strange cloak around Bertholdt’s shoulders. This one was blue, and had a small edging of silver flowers. Immediately Reiner felt pangs of guilt. 

“Bertl, I am sorry, it is my fault you had to cut up your cloak,” Reiner said earnestly, feeling irrationally worried, as though Bertholdt would not fight as well without his black and silver cloak. 

“Do not worry about it, Reiner,” Bertholdt said softly. “It is with a seamstress, getting repaired.” Bertholdt leaned down to place a firm kiss on Reiner’s lips. As Bertholdt pulled away, his face was suddenly drawn into a frown. His eyes studied Reiner’s face intently. 

In moments, Bertholdt let out a small gasp. “Reiner, what happened to your braid?” Immediately Bertholdt’s hand moved to stroke Reiner’s hair, his fingers coming to rest where the small braid of blond hair had been. 

Reiner found his face growing flushed. “I-I, uh, cut it out,” Reiner stammered, feeling suddenly very foolish. 

Bertholdt looked flabbergasted. “Why would you ever do that?” he asked, his hand still in Reiner’s hair. 

Reiner felt his face growing even hotter. Shifting slightly in bed, Reiner reached under the covers and pulled the lock of hair out from under the blankets. Grabbing Bertholdt’s gauntleted hand, he pressed the braid into it. “I want you to have it,” Reiner said firmly. “Take it as a token of my love.” 

Bertholdt stared into his palm for what seemed like a small eternity, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “R-Reiner, thank you…” 

For several minutes he stood there, silent tears running down his cheeks. Leaning in, he kissed Reiner again, but deeply, one hand cupping Reiner’s face. Reiner shut his eyes, savoring Bertholdt’s kiss and wishing it would never end. Eventually, Bertholdt pulled away, breathless. 

“I promise I will come back,” Bertholdt affirmed, placing the braid in a small pouch on his sword belt. 

“Good.” Reiner gave his hand a warm squeeze. 

“I have to leave now, Reiner,” Bertholdt lamented, wiping away the tears on his cheeks. “I needed to say goodbye, though. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Reiner murmured, beginning to tear up himself. His chest actually hurt, as though his heart would break upon their parting. 

Bertholdt retrieved the parcel he had placed on the floor. “Here, this is for you,” Bertholdt said, setting it on Reiner’s bed. “Th-thank you so much, for your braid. It will be my promise to return to you.”

“You need to return.” Reiner raised his wounded arms to bring attention to them. “I need you to take care of me.” 

Bertholdt closed in for one last soft kiss. As if saying anything would be too painful, Bertholdt rose and gave Reiner’s hand one last squeeze. Reiner could hardly bear to let go, his heart aching. This would be the last time he saw Bertholdt. _At least Bertholdt is still my Dúnadan prince_ , Reiner thought as he gazed one last time at Bertholdt’s figure. He was just as stunning and handsome as he had been the day they met in the Golden Hall. 

And then Bertholdt was gone. Reiner sank back into his pillows, staring at the parcel Bertholdt had left him. Curious, Reiner fumbled with the string (his fingers had not quite regained their dexterity yet) but finally succeeded in untying it. He opened the brown cloth and let out a gasp. Bertholdt had brought him his green cloak. 

Feeling a few tears slide down his cheeks, Reiner gazed at his cloak. The lining had been repaired and the bloodstains had been laundered out. During his inspection, he noticed a piece of parchment fall out of the cloak. Reiner picked up the piece of parchment, realizing that it was a note from Bertholdt. While he was still very much a beginner at reading, Reiner struggled his way through. 

_My dearest Reiner,_

_I sent in your cloak in to be repaired. I made sure the healers gave it to me. It is too beautiful to be thrown away. If not for this cloak I would never have found you on the battlefield. Take rest, do not irritate your wounds too much, and focus on regaining your strength. I will see you again. When the hosts of Gondor and Rohan return, wear this cloak. That way I will recognize you from a distance._

_I love you._

_—Bertholdt_

Reiner tried to stifle his sobs, but the effort was in vain. Clutching the note to his chest, Reiner let himself cry, cry for the man he would never see again and the future that they never could have had: a future of peace, with both their people prospering, but most importantly, a future where his love for Bertholdt would no longer be tinged with horrible sorrow. Maybe they could have been married in that future. Maybe Reiner could have been Bertholdt’s husband. 

Finally Reiner felt himself run out of tears. Feeling exhausted by his outburst, Reiner placed the cloak with his other belongings under the bed, but he kept the note near his heart, cherishing it as though it was an ancient manuscript. 

Reiner longed for Bertholdt to come back, but he knew that his longing was in vain. Reiner lost track of how much time passed. Eventually the city quieted down as the host of Rohan and Gondor departed; the sun grew low in the west. Letting out a sad sigh, Reiner pulled his covers about him and sank into sleep, drifting off with wishful thoughts— like the thought of Bertholdt returning to Minas Tirith. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
